"But _you_ have something on your mind, too. You have _me_. Why doesn't Jack go?"

"Well, I rather think he has Violet on his mind. Did you ever see anything so spooney as they looked all through dinner yesterday and luncheon to-day? I didn't think it was in Violet."

"Did she never look at you like that?" asks Mona, maliciously; "in the early days, I mean, before--before----"

"I fell a victim to your charms? No. Jack has it all to himself as far as I'm concerned. Well, I must be off, you know. It is a tremendous drive, and I'll barely do it in time. I shall be back about two in the morning."

"Not until two?" says Mona, growing miserable again.

"I can't well get away before that, you know, as Wigley is a good way off. But I'll try all I know. And, after all," says Geoffrey, with a view to cheering her, "it isn't as bad as if I was ordered off somewhere for a week, is it?"

"A week? I should be _dead_ when you came back," declares Mrs. Geoffrey, with some vehemence, and a glance that shows she can dissolve into tears at a moment's notice.

"Some fellows go away for months," says Geoffrey, still honestly bent on cheering her, but unfortunately going the wrong way to work.

"Then they ought to be ashamed of themselves," says Mona, with much indignation. "Months indeed!"

"Why, they can't help it," explains he. "They are sent half the time."

"Then the people who send them should be ashamed! But what about the other half of their time that they spend from home?"

"Oh, I don't know: that was a mere figure of speech," says Mr. Rodney, who is afraid to say such absences are caused by an innate love of freedom and a vile desire for liberty at any cost, and has nothing else handy. "Now don't stay moping up here when I go, but run downstairs and find the girls and make yourself happy with them."

"Happy?" reproachfully. "I shan't know a happy moment until I see you again!"

"Nor I, till I see you," says Geoffrey, earnestly, actually believing what he says himself.

"I shall do nothing but look at the clock and listen for the sound of the horse's feet."

"Mona, you musn't do that. Now, I shall be really annoyed if you insist on sitting up for me and so lose a good night's rest. Now, don't, darling. It will only take it out of you, and make you pale and languid next day."

"But I shall be more content so; and even if I went to bed I could not sleep. Besides, I shall not be companionless when the small hours begin to creep upon me."

"Eh?" says Geoffrey.

"No; I shall have him with me: but, hush! It is quite a secret," placing her finger on her lips.

"'Him'?--whom?"--demands her husband, with pardonable vivacity.

"My own old pet," says Mrs. Geoffrey, still mysteriously, and with the fondest smile imaginable.

"Good gracious, Mona, whom do you mean?" asks he, aghast both at her look and tone.

"Why, Spice, of course," opening her eyes. "Didn't you know. Why, what else could I mean?"

"I don't know, I'm sure; but really the way you expressed yourself, and----Yes, of course, Spice will be company, the very best company for you."

"I think I shall have Allspice too," goes on Mona. "But say nothing.

Lady Rodney, if she knew it, would not allow it for a moment. But Jenkins" (the old butler) "has promised to manage it all for me, and to smuggle my dear dogs up to my room without any one being in the least the wiser."

"If you have Jenkins on your side you are pretty safe," says Geoffrey.

"My mother is more afraid of Jenkins than you would be of a land-leaguer. Well, good-by again. I must be off."

"What horse are you taking?" asks she, holding him.

"Black Bess."

"Oh, Geoffrey, do you want to break my heart? Sure you know he is the most vicious animal in the whole stables. Take any horse but that."

"Well, if only to oblige you, I'll take Truant."

"What! the horrid brute that puts back his ears and shows the white of his eyes! Geoffrey, once for all, I desire you to have nothing to do with him."

"Anything to please you," says Geoffrey, who is laughing by this time.

"May I trust my precious bones to Mazerin? He is quite fifteen, has only one eye, and a shameless disregard for the whip."

"Ye--es; he will do," says Mona, after a second's careful thought, and even now reluctantly.

"I think I see myself behind Mazerin, at this time of day," says Mr.

Rodney, heartlessly. "You don't catch me at it, if I know it. I'm not sure what horse I shall have, but I trust to Thomas to give me a good one. For the last time, good-by, you amiable young goose, and don't expect me till I come."

So saying, he embraces her warmly, and, running downstairs, jumps into the dog-cart, and drives away behind the "vicious Black Bess."

Mona watches him from her window, as far as the curve in the avenue will permit, and, having received and returned his farewell wave of the hand, sits down, and taking out her handkerchief, indulges in a good cry.

It is the first time since their marriage that she and Geoffrey have been parted, and it seems to her a hard thing that such partings should be. A sense of desolation creeps over her,--a sense of loneliness she has never known before.

Then she remembers her promise to go down to the girls and abstain from fretting, and, rising bravely, she bathes her eyes, and goes down the marble staircase through the curtained alcove towards the small drawing-room, where one of the servants tells her, the family is a.s.sembled.

The door of the room she is approaching is wide open, and inside, as Mona draws nearer, it becomes apparent that some one is talking very loudly, and with much emphasis, and as though determined not to be silenced. Argument is plainly the order of the hour.

As Mona comes still nearer, the words of the speaker reach her, and sink into her brain. It is Lady Rodney who is holding forth, and what she says floats lightly to Mona's ears. She is still advancing, unmindful of anything but the fact that she cannot see Geoffrey again for more hours than she cares to count, when the following words become clear to her, and drive the color from her cheeks,--

"And those dogs forever at her heels!--positively, she is half a savage.

The whole thing is in keeping, and quite detestable. How can you expect me to welcome a girl who is without family and absolutely penniless?

Why, I am convinced that misguided boy bought her even her trousseau!"

Mona has no time to hear more; pale, but collected, she walks deliberately into the room and up to Lady Rodney.

"You are mistaken in one point," she says, slowly. "I may be savage, penniless, without family,--but I bought my own trousseau. I do not say this to excuse myself, because I should not mind taking anything from Geoffrey; but I think it a pity you should not know the truth. I had some money of my own,--very little, I allow, but enough to furnish me with wedding garments."

Her coming is a thunderbolt, her speech lightning. Lady Rodney changes color, and is for once utterly disconcerted.

"I beg your pardon," she manages to say. "Of course had I known you were listening at the door I should not have said what I did,"--this last with a desire to offend.

"I was not listening at the door," says Mona, with dignity, yet with extreme difficulty: some hand seems clutching at her heart-strings, and he who should have been near to succor her is far away. "I never,"

haughtily, "listened at a door in all my life. _I_ should not understand how to do it." Her Irish blood is up, and there is a distinct emphasis upon the p.r.o.noun. "You have wronged me twice!"

Her voice falters. Instinctively she looks round for help. She feels deserted,--alone. No one speaks. Sir Nicholas and Violet, who are in the room, are as yet almost too shocked to have command of words; and presently the silence becomes unbearable.