"I shall go away," declares Nolly; "I shall go aboard,—at least as far as the orchard;" then, with a complete change of tone, "By the by, Mrs. Geoffrey, will you come for a walk? Do: the day is 'heavenly fair.'"
"Well, not just now, I think," says Mona, evasively.
"Why not?" persuasively: "it will do you a world of good."
"Perhaps then a little later on I shall go," returns Mona, who, like all her countrywomen, detests giving a direct answer, and can never bring herself to say a decided "no" to any one.
"As you evidently need support, I'll go with you as far as the stables," says Geoffrey, compassionately, and together they leave the room, keeping company until they gain the yard, when Geoffrey turns to the right and makes for the stables, leaving Nolly to wend his solitary way to the flowery orchard.
It is an hour later. Afternoon draws towards evening, yet one scarcely feels the change. It is sultry, drowsy, warm, and full of a "slow luxurious calm."
"Earth putteth on the borrow'd robes of heaven,
And sitteth in a Sabbath of still rest;
And silence swells into a dreamy sound,
That sinks again to silence.
The runnel hath
Its tune beneath the trees,
And through the woodlands swell
The tender trembles of the ringdove's dole."
The Rodneys are, for the most part, in the library, the room dearest to them. Mona is telling Doatie's fortune on cards, Geoffrey and Nicholas are discussing the merits and demerits of a new mare, Lady Rodney in still struggling with the crimson sock,—when the door is opened, and Nolly entering adds himself to the group.
His face is slightly flushed, his whole manner full of importance. He advances to where the two girls are sitting, and stops opposite Mona.