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"I don't know, I'm sure. I have never thought about it. Did I cry, Geoffrey, when——" hesitates Mrs. Geoffrey, with a laugh, and a faint sweet blush. The man draws back hurriedly, and the woman once more sinks back into her forlorn position. He is a tall young man, about thirty-two, yet looking younger, with a somewhat sallow complexion, large dreamy brown eyes, and very fine sleek black hair. He wears neither moustache nor whiskers, principally for the very good reason that Nature has forgotten to supply them. For which perhaps he should be grateful, as it would have been a cruel thing to hide the excessive beauty of his mouth and chin and perfectly-turned jaw. These are his chief charms, being mild and thoughtful, yet a trifle firm, and in perfect accordance with the upper part of his face. He is hardly handsome, but is certainly attractive..

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Not that he himself is at all aware of the evil case into which he has fallen. He feels not the arrow in his heart, or the tender bands that slowly but surely are winding themselves around him,—steel bands, decked out and hidden by perfumed flowers. As yet he feels no pang; and, indeed, were any one to even hint at such a thing, he would have laughed aloud at the idea of his being what is commonly termed "in love." "Yes, of course," she says, dejectedly. A cloud seems to have fallen upon her happy hour. "When did you hear that—that last singer?" she asks, in a subdued voice. "Yes. I forgive you," she says, almost in a whisper, with a seriousness that amounts to solemnity. "You know your mother will object to me," says Mona, with an effort, speaking hurriedly, whilst a little fleck of scarlet flames into her cheeks..