"Leighton Hall," repeats she, slowly, fixing upon him her dark eyes that are always so full of truth and honesty. "But you told me you were poor. That a third son——"
"Wasn't much!" interrupts Geoffrey, with an attempt at carelessness that rather falls through beneath the gaze of those searching eyes. "Well, no more he is, you know, as a rule, unless some kind relative comes to his assistance."
"But you told me no maiden aunt had ever come to your assistance," goes on Mona, remorselessly.
"In that I spoke the truth," says Mr. Rodney, with a shameless laugh, "because it was an uncle who left me some money."
"You have not been quite true with me," says Mona, in a curious way, never removing her gaze and never returning his smile. "Are you rich, then, if you are not poor?"
"I'm a long way off being rich," says the young man, who is palpably amused, in spite of a valiant effort to suppress all outward signs of enjoyment. "I'm awfully poor when compared with some fellows. I dare say I must come in for something when my other uncle dies, but at present I have only fifteen hundred pounds a year."
"Only!" says Mona. "Do you know, Mr. Moore has no more than that, and we think him very rich indeed! No, you have not been open with me: you should have told me. I haven't ever thought of you to myself as being a rich man. Now I shall have to begin and think of you a lover again in quite another light." She is evidently deeply aggrieved.
"But, my darling child, I can't help the fact that George Rodney left me the Hall," says Geoffrey, deprecatingly, reducing the space between them to a mere nothing, and slipping his arm round her waist. "And if I was a beggar on the face of the earth, I could not love you more than I do, nor could you, I hope"—reproachfully—"love me better either."
The reproachful ring in his voice does its intended work. The soft heart throws out resentment, and once more gives shelter to gentle thoughts alone. She even consents to Rodney's laying his cheek against hers, and faintly returns the pressure of his hand.
"Yet I think you should have told me," she whispers, as a last fading censure. "Do you know you have made me very unhappy?"