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Like little mice, stole in and out, Mona hesitates, then says, shyly, with downcast eyes,— He is delighted with her ready response, her gayety, her sweetness, her freshness; was there ever so fair a face? Every one in the room by this time is asking who is the duke's partner, and Lady Chetwoode is beset with queries. All the women, except a very few, are consumed with jealousy; all the men are devoured with envy of the duke. Beyond all doubt the pretty Irish bride is the rage of the hour..
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"Is it very late?" says Mona, awaking from her happy dreams with a start. Kŭt-o-yĭs´ then went on, and after a time came to where a woman had made a place for sliding downhill. At the far end of it she had fixed a rope which, when she raised it, would trip people up, and when they were tripped they fell over a high cliff into a deep water, where a great fish ate them. "In the National Gallery, do you mean?" asks Mona, with a pretty, puzzled frown on her brow. "Oh, no, Geoffrey; I shouldn't like that at all. To be stared at by everybody,—it wouldn't be nice, would it?" Cold, and half wild with horror, she yet retains her presence of mind, and, beckoning to one of the dogs, says imperiously, "At him, Spice!" pointing to Paul Rodney..
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