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"I want you to leave Ireland—not next month, or next week, but at once. To-morrow, if possible." To the surprise of everybody, Geoffrey takes no open notice of his mother's speech. He does not give way to wrath, nor does he open his lips on any subject. His face is innocent of anger, horror, or distrust. It changes, indeed, beneath the glow of the burning logs but in a manner totally unexpected. An expression that might even be termed hope lights it up. Like this do his thoughts run: "Can it be possible that the Australian has caved in, and, fearing publicity after last night's fiasco, surrendered the will to Mona?" "I should never be afraid of him," returns Mona. "He has kind eyes. He is"—slowly and meditatively—"very like you.".

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"My own old pet," says Mrs. Geoffrey, still mysteriously, and with the fondest smile imaginable. Lady Rodney, rising hurriedly, sails with offended dignity from the room. A choking sensation, rising from her heart, almost stops Mona's breath; her mouth feels parched and dry; her eyes widen. A sudden fear oppresses her. How is it going to be in all the future? Is Geoffrey's—her own husband's—mother to be her enemy? "If we hurry we must meet his car there, and can send him back into Bantry, and so save him.".