“You’ll do it once too often one of these days. You’ll end by singeing your own wings, and that when you least expect it. And when you do it’ll be a scorcher, my child—a scorcher, mark my words.”
“I don’t know that I’d mind that. I believe I should positively enjoy it. Such an experience would be delicious.”
“Wait until it comes, Mona, and then tell me how ‘enjoyable,’ how ‘delicious’ you find it,” is the reply, given rather shortly, and, it might be thought, with a dash of bitterness.
But Mona Ridsdale says nothing as she slides from her hammock, and, standing upright, stretches her magnificent limbs and again yawns. Looked at now she is seen to be a splendidly developed, and perfectly proportioned specimen of womanhood: whose lines the fall throat and bust, the symmetrical curves of the waist, and the swelling, rounded hips, show faultless in the lithe, natural grace of her attitude. The face, however, is a puzzling one, for its upper and lower parts are contradictory. The higher aspirations, a great capacity for tenderness, and the better and nobler qualities suggested in the broad, smooth brow and melting hazel eyes, are negatived by the setting of the lower jaw and the straight compression of the lips, which convey the idea of a hardness of purpose—when purpose runs on the same lines as inclination—a recklessness of consequence, self-will, ruthlessness. The effect of these contradictions is not a little curious, and is calculated to draw from the observer of character a mingled verdict, to convey an uncomfortable impression of unreliability. It is a face which has just missed being beautiful, and, as it is, can become wondrously attractive; as, judging from the foregoing conversation, some must already have discovered, to their cost.
“Why, I believe Charlie has come back!” cries Mrs Suffield, rising to her feet. “What a noise the dogs are making. Yes, it is him,” as a male voice is heard, pacifying those faithful, if uproarious, guardians. Then its tones are mingled with those of another; and they are approaching. “Who on earth has he got with him?” she continues.
Two men appear among the fruit trees, and, getting over the low sod wall, now come up.
“Hallo, Grace!” cries the foremost. “Thought we’d find you and Mona lazing somewhere, so instinctively made for the coolest spot. I’ve brought you a visitor. This is Mr Musgrave, Watkins’ successor.”
The effect upon Grace Suffield of this introduction is strange—to the two witnesses thereof inexplicable. Quite a rush of colour comes into her ordinarily pale face, and there is the trepidation of suppressed eagerness in her manner.
“Well, this is an unexpected pleasure! I am glad to see you, Mr Musgrave.” Then, turning to her mystified husband, “Charlie, this is the gentleman who was so kind to me during that awful post-cart journey. That horrible river—ugh!” with a shudder.
“The deuce it is! Then, Musgrave, you must accept my best thanks, and a thousand per cent, more of hearty welcome,” says Suffield. “My wife swears her days would have been numbered but for you. She has done nothing but talk of your kindness to her ever since.”