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Dorothy from her corner laughs gayly. "Poor old Noll," she says: "it was his unhappy childhood that blighted his later years and made him the melancholy object he is." "I don't see why I shouldn't put in a month there very comfortably," says Geoffrey, indolently, pulling the ears of a pretty, saucy little fat terrier that sits blinking at him, with brown eyes full of love, on a chair close by. "And it will be something new to go to Ireland, at all events. It is rather out of the running these times, so probably will prove interesting; and at least there is a chance that one won't meet every town acquaintance round every corner. That's the worry of going abroad, and I'm heartily sick of the whole thing." "Yes, it is strange why that wall should be different from the others," Mona says, rather glad that he appears interested in something besides herself. "But it is altogether quite a nice old room, is it not?".
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"'Top corner,—right hand,'" goes on Mona, taking no heed of him, and speaking in the same low, mysterious, far-off tone. Just then Dorothy says,— There were those who said she clung to him because of his wonderful likeness to the picture of his grandfather in the south gallery, Sir Launcelot by name, who in choicest ruffles and most elaborate queue, smiled gayly down upon the passers-by. "Was it you?" asks he, raising himself on his elbow to regard her earnestly, though very loath to quit the spot where late he has been tenant. "You? Oh, Mona!".
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