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It is over; the curtain is down; the charming transformation-scene has reached its end, and the fairy-queen doffing her radiant robes, descends once more to the level of a paltry mortal. Mona shivers. Getting up from her lowly position, she draws back the curtains of her window and looks out upon the night. It is brilliant with moonlight, clear as day, full of that hallowed softness, that peaceful serenity, that belongs alone to night. "Then I can only say I pity you," says Miss Mansergh, leaning back in her chair, with the air of one who would say, "Argument here is in vain.".

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Her hair is falling like a veil all round her; through it she looks out at Rodney with eyes frightened and imploring. Geoffrey does not hear her. Paul does. And as his own name, coming from her lips, falls upon his ear, a great change passes over his face. It is ashy pale; his lips are bloodless; his eyes are full of rage and undying hatred: but at her voice it softens, and something that is quite indescribable, but is perhaps pain and grief and tenderness and despair combined, comes into it. Her lips—the purest and sweetest under heaven—have deigned to address him as one not altogether outside the pale of friendship,—of common fellowship. In her own divine charity and tenderness she can see good in others who are not (as he acknowledges to himself with terrible remorse) worthy to touch the very hem of her white skirts. "Yes, long ago," says Geoffrey, with animation. "Quite an hour ago." "Enjoying myself?—No, I never do that," says Rodney, with unexpected frankness..