"That is true," says Mona; "but it does not apply to me; and it is for you only I fear. Let me say just this: I have thought it all over; there were many hours in which to think, because I could not sleep——"
"Neither could I," puts in Geoffrey. "But it was hard on you, my darling."
"And this is what I would say: in one year from this I will marry you, if"—with a faint tremble in her tone—"you then still care to marry me. But not before."
"A year! An eternity!"
"No; only twelve months,"—hastily; "say no more now: my mind is quite made up."
"Last week, Mona, you gave me your promise to marry me before Christmas; can you break it now? Do you know what an old writer says? 'Thou oughtest to be nice even to superstition in keeping thy promises; and therefore thou shouldst be equally cautious in making them.' Now, you have made yours in all good faith, how can you break it again?"
"Ah! then I did not know all," says Mona. "That was your fault. No; if I consent to do you this injury you shall at least have time to think it over."
"Do you distrust me?" says Rodney,—this time really hurt, because his love for her is in reality deep and strong and thorough.
"No,"—slowly,—"I do not. If I did, I should not love you as—as I do."
"It is all very absurd," says Rodney, impatiently. "If a year, or two, or twenty, were to go by, it would be all the same; I should love you then as I love you to-day, and no other woman. Be reasonable, darling; give up this absurd idea."