"Sir," says Mr. Rodney, taking no notice of this preamble, "I shall trouble you to explain what you mean by reducing an inoffensive shoulder-blade to powder."
"Beg pardon, I'm sure," says Nolly, absently. "But"—with sudden interest—"do you know what you have done? You have married the prettiest woman in England."
"I haven't," says Geoffrey.
"You have," says Nolly.
"I tell you I have not," says Geoffrey. "Nothing of the sort. You are wool-gathering."
"Good gracious! he can't mean that he is tired of her already," exclaims Mr. Darling, in an audible aside. "That would be too much even for our times."
At this Geoffrey gives way to mirth. He and Darling are virtually alone, as Nicholas and Captain Rodney are talking earnestly about the impending lawsuit in a distant corner.
"My dear fellow, you have overworked your brain," he says, ironically: "You don't understand me. I am not tired of her. I shall never cease to bless the day I saw her,"—this with great earnestness,—"but you say I have married the handsomest woman in England, and she is not English at all."
"Oh, well, what's the odds?" says Nolly. "Whether she is French, or English, Irish or German, she has just the loveliest face I ever saw, and the sweetest ways. You've done an awfully dangerous thing. You will be Mrs. Rodney's husband in no time,—nothing else, and you positively won't know yourself in a year after. Individuality lost. Name gone. Nothing left but your four bones. You will be quite thankful for them, even, after a bit."
"You terrify me," says Geoffrey, with a grimace. "You think, then, that Mona is pretty?"