"My dear mother," says Geoffrey, coming back to the firelight, "what you would insinuate is too ridiculous to be taken any notice of." Every particle of his former passion has died from his voice, and he is now quite calm, nay cheerful.
"But at the same time I must ask you to remember you are speaking of my wife."
"I do remember it," replies she, bitterly.
Just at this moment a light step running up the stairs outside and across the veranda makes itself heard. Every one looks expectant, and the slight displeasure dies out of Geoffrey's face. A slender, graceful figure appears at the window, and taps lightly.
"Open the window, Geoff," cries Mona, eagerly, and as he obeys her commands she steps into the room with a certain touch of haste about her movements, and looks round upon them earnestly,—some peculiar expression, born of a glad thought, rendering her lovely face even more perfect than usual.
There is a smile upon her lips; her hands are clasped behind her.
"I am so glad you have come, darling," says little Dorothy, taking off her hat, and laying it on a chair near her.
Geoffrey removes the heavy lace that lies round her throat, and then leads her up to the hearthrug nearly opposite to his mother's arm-chair.
"Where have you been, Mona?" he asks, quietly, gazing into the great honest liquid eyes raised so willingly to his own.
"You shall guess," says Mrs. Geoffrey, gayly, with a little laugh. "Now, where do you think?"