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"When you got the pistol so cleverly into your own possession, why on earth didn't you shoot him?" demands Mr. Darling, gloomily, who evidently feels bloodthirsty when he thinks of the Australian and his presumptuous admiration for the peerless Mona. Dorothy, feeling snubbed, subsides into silence and the shadow that envelopes the lounge on which she is sitting. Releasing her hands from his firm grasp, the girl lays them lightly crossed upon his breast, and looks up at him with perfect trust,—.
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"You?" says Mona, with extreme hauteur and an unpleasant amount of well-feigned astonishment. She does not deign to go to meet him, or even turn her head altogether in his direction, but just throws a swift and studiously unfriendly glance at him from under her long lashes. "Well, you didn't," says Mona. "Are you engaged to her?" "The will—but are you sure—sure?" says Lady Rodney, feebly. She tries to rise, but sinks back again in her chair, feeling faint and overcome. "Why, what is this?" she says, a moment later; "and what a curious hand! Not a gentleman's surely.".
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