"I wonder when you will adore any one, Nolly," says Geoffrey, idly.
"I do adore somebody," returns that ingenuous youth, staring openly at Mona, who is taking up the last stitch dropped by Lady Rodney in the little scarlet silk sock she is knitting for Phyllis Carrington's boy.
"That's me," says Mona, glancing at him archly from under her long lashes.
"Now, how did you find it out? who told you?" asks Mr. Darling, with careful surprise. "Yes, it is true; I don't seek to deny it. The hopeless passion I entertain for you is dearer to me than any other more successful affection can ever be. I worship a dream,—an idea,—and am happier in my maddest moments than others when most same.
"Bless me, Nolly, you are not going to be ill, are you?" says Geoffrey. "Such a burst of eloquence is rare."
"There are times, I confess," goes on Mr. Darling, disposing of Geoffrey's mundane interruption by a contemptuous wave of the hand, "when light breaks in upon me, and a joyful, a thrice-blessed termination to my dream presents itself. For instance, if Geoffrey could only be brought to see things as they are, and have the grace to quit this mortal globe and soar to worlds unknown, I should then fling myself at your feet, and——"
"Oh—well—don't," interrupts Mrs. Geoffrey, hastily.
"Eh! you don't mean to say that after all my devotion you would then refuse me?" asks Mr. Darling, with some disgust.
"Yes, you, and every other man," says Mona, smiling, and raising her loving eyes to her husband.
"I think, sir, after that you may consider yourself flattened," says Geoffrey, with a laugh.