"Yes, I could not sleep. Watching and waiting destroy all chance of slumber."
"Lucky he," says Nolly, fervently, "to know there is somebody who longs for his return when he is abroad; to feel that there are eyes that will mark his coming, and look brighter when he comes, and all that sort of thing. Nobody ever cares about my coming," says Mr. Darling, with deep regret, "except to lament it."
"How melancholy!" says Mona, with a nearer approach to brightness than she has shown all day.
"Yes. I'm not much," confesses Mr. Darling, blandly. "Others are more fortunate. I'm like 'the man in the street,' subject to all the winds of heaven. Why, it would almost tempt a man to stay away from home occasionally to know there was some one longing for his return. It would positively encourage him to dine out whenever he got the chance."
"I pity your wife," says Mona, almost severely.
"Oh, now, Mrs. Geoffrey, come—I say—how cruel yon can be!"
"Well, do not preach such doctrine to Geoffrey," she says, with repentance mixed with pathos.
"I shall do only what you wish," returns he, chivalrously, arranging the cushion that adorns the back of her chair.
The morning wanes, and luncheon declares itself. When it has come to an end, Mona going slowly up the stairs to her own room is met there by one of the maids,—not her own,—who hands her a sealed note.
"From whom?" demands Mona, lazily, seeing the writing is unknown to her.