"Well, just one moment," says Geoffrey, detaining her, "let us finish what we were saying. Would you rather go to the East or to Rome?"
"To Rome," says Mona. "But do you mean it? Can you afford it? Italy seems so far away." Then, after a thoughtful silence, "Mr. Rodney——"
"Who on earth are you speaking to?" says Geoffrey.
"To you!" with surprise.
"I am not Mr. Rodney: Jack is that. Can't you call me anything else?"
"What else?" says Mona, shyly.
"Call me Geoffrey."
"I always think of you as Geoffrey," whispers she, with a swift, sweet, upward glance; "but to say it is so different. Well," bravely, "I'll try. Dear, dear, dear Geoffrey, I want to tell you I would be as happy with you in Wicklow as in Rome."
"I know that," says Geoffrey, "and the knowledge makes me more happy than I can say. But to Rome you shall go, whatever it may cost. And then we shall return to England to our own home. And then—little rebel that you are—you must begin to look upon yourself as an English subject, and accept the queen as your gracious sovereign."
"I need no queen when I have got a king," says the girl, with ready wit and great tenderness.