"Why, Mona, what is this?" exclaims he, his manner changing on the instant from indignation and coldness to warmth and tenderness. "You are crying? My darling girl! There, lay your head on my shoulder, and let us forget we have ever quarrelled. It is our first dispute; let it be our last. And, after all," comfortably, "it is much better to have our quarrels before marriage than after."
This last insinuation, he flatters himself, is rather cleverly introduced.
"Oh, if I could be quite, quite sure you would never regret it!" says Mona, wistfully.
"I shall never regret anything, as long as I have you!" says Rodney. "Be assured of that."
"I am so glad you are poor," says Mona. "If you were rich or even well off, I should never consent,—never!"
"No, of course not," says Mr. Rodney, unblushingly! "as a rule, girls nowadays can't endure men with money."
This is "sarkassum;" but Mona comprehends it not.
Presently, seeing she is again smiling and looking inexpressibly happy, for laughter comes readily to her lips, and tears, as a rule, make no long stay with her,—ashamed, perhaps, to disfigure the fair "windows of her soul," that are so "darkly, deeply, beautifully blue,"—"So you will come to England with me, after all?" he says, quite gayly.
"I would go to the world's end with you," returns she, gently. "Ah! I think you knew that all along."
"Well, I didn't," says Rodney. "There were moments, indeed, when I believed in you; but five minutes ago, when you flung me over so decidedly, and refused to have anything to do with me, I lost faith in you, and began to think you a thorough-going coquette like all the rest. How I wronged you, my dear love! I should have known that under no circumstances could you be untruthful."