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"Is there no hope?" asks Geoffrey, gravely. "What did she say, Mona?" inquired Doatie. "Edith Carson is very nearly so, I think.".
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"I don't mind," says Mona. "We are Paddies, of course." She disappears, and Geoffrey, obedient to orders, lounges off to the green glade, that now no longer owns rich coloring, but is strewn with leaves from the gaunt trees that stand in solemn order like grave sentries round it. Mona has no time to hear more; pale, but collected, she walks deliberately into the room and up to Lady Rodney. Taking up the hapless heather, she throws it on the ground, and, in a fit of childish spleen, lays her foot upon it and tramples it out of all recognition. Yet, even as she does so, the tears gather in her eyes, and, resting there unshed, transfigure her into a lovely picture that might well be termed "Beauty in Distress." For this faded flower she grieves, as though it were, indeed, a living thing that she has lost..
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