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Geoffrey, springing down from the dog-cart that has been sent to the station to meet him, brushes the frost from his hair, and stamps his feet upon the stone steps. "I do not wish to lay claim to anything," says Mona, throwing up her head with a little proud gesture,—"least of all to what does not by right belong to me. To be Mrs. Geoffrey is all I ask." "Oh, it is dreadfully late!" says Mona, with much compunction. "Come, let us hurry." "Your wife?" repeats she, in soft, lingering tones, and a little tender seraphic smile creeps into her eyes and lies lightly on her lips. "But I am not fit to be that, and——".