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She opens the door, and runs almost into Mona's arms, who is evidently searching for her everywhere. The reproach is terrible, and cuts him to the heart. He picks up the poor little bruised flower, and holds it tenderly in his hand. "I hardly think I follow you," says Geoffrey, in a frozen tone. "In regard to what would you wish your servants deceived?".
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Geoffrey, who has tears in his eyes, takes her in his arms and kisses her once softly, before them all. "I wasn't," says Mona: "I went out a great deal. All day long I was in the open air. That is what made my hands so brown last autumn." "Oh, dear, no," says Mona, with an emphatic shake of her lovely head. "She hadn't the least little bit of wit in her composition. She was as solemn as an Eng——I mean a Spaniard (they are all solemn, are they not?), and never made a joke in her life, but she was irresistibly comic all the same." Then suddenly, "What a very pretty little woman that is over there, and what a lovely dress!" "An aim!" he says, bitterly. "I think I have found an end to my life where most fellows find a beginning.".
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