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The Rodneys are, for the most part, in the library, the room dearest to them. Mona is telling Doatie's fortune on cards, Geoffrey and Nicholas are discussing the merits and demerits of a new mare, Lady Rodney in still struggling with the crimson sock,—when the door is opened, and Nolly entering adds himself to the group. Indeed, no sound disturbs the sacred silence save the crisp rustle of the dead leaves, as they are trodden into the ground. At this appalling speech Geoffrey's calculations fall through, and he gives himself up to undisguised mirth..

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"So it is really, Mrs. Geoffrey, you know," says Nolly, placing his hand on her other shoulder to give her a second shake. "Nick's quite right. Don't take it to heart; don't now. You might as well say the gunsmith who originally sold him the fatal weapon is responsible for this unhappy event, as—as that you are." "You are not perhaps aware of it, but your tone is insulting," he begins, huskily. "Were you a man I could give you an answer, now, here; but as it is I am of course tied hand and foot. You can say to me what you please. And I shall bear it. Think as badly of me as you will. I am a schemer, a swindler, what you will!" That he—who has known so many seasons, and passed through the practised hands of some of the prettiest women this world can afford, heart-whole, and without a scratch—should fall a victim to the innocent wiles of a little merry Irish girl of no family whatever, seems too improbable even of belief, however lovely beyond description this girl may be (and is), with her wistful, laughing, mischievous Irish eyes, and her mobile lips, and her disposition half angelic, half full of fire and natural coquetry. "And you really mustn't think us such very big people," says Geoffrey, in a deprecating tone, "because we are any thing but that, and, in fact,"—with a sharp contraction of his brow that betokens inward grief,—"there is rather a cloud over us just now.".