Mrs. Geoffrey. Duchess
CHAPTER XXIII.
HOW MONA INTERVIEWS THE DUCHESS—AND HOW SHE SUSTAINS CONVERSATION WITH THE RODNEYS' EVIL GENIUS.
HOW THE CLOUD GATHERS—AND HOW NICHOLAS AND DOROTHY HAVE THEIR BAD QUARTER OF AN HOUR.
HOW MONA GOES TO ANADALE—AND HOW SHE THERE SEES MANY THINGS AS YET TO HER UNKNOWN.
HOW MONA TAKES A WALK ABROAD—AND HOW SHE ASKS CROSS-QUESTIONS AND RECEIVES CROOKED ANSWERS.
HOW THE TOWERS WAKES INTO LIFE—AND HOW MONA SHOWS THE LIBRARY TO PAUL RODNEY.
HOW GEOFFREY DINES OUT, AND HOW MONA FARES DURING HIS ABSENCE.
HOW MONA DEFENDS THE DEAD—AND HOW LADY LILIAS EATON WAXES ELOQUENT.
HOW MONA REFUSES A GALLANT OFFER—AND HOW NOLLY VIEWS LIFE THROUGH THE BRANCHES OF A PORTUGAL LAUREL.
CHAPTER I.
HOW GEOFFREY DECLARES HIS INTENTION OF SPENDING THE AUTUMN IN IRELAND.
"I don't see why I shouldn't put in a month there very comfortably," says Geoffrey, indolently, pulling the ears of a pretty, saucy little fat terrier that sits blinking at him, with brown eyes full of love, on a chair close by. "And it will be something new to go to Ireland, at all events. It is rather out of the running these times, so probably will prove interesting; and at least there is a chance that one won't meet every town acquaintance round every corner. That's the worry of going abroad, and I'm heartily sick of the whole thing."
"You will get murdered," says his mother, quite as indolently, half opening her eyes, which are gray as Geoffrey's own. "They always kill people, with things they call pikes, or burn them out of house and home, over there, without either rhyme or reason."
"They certainly must be a lively lot, if all one hears is true," says Geoffrey, with a suppressed yawn.
"You are not really going there, Geoff?"
"Yes, really."
"To what part of Ireland?"
"Somewhere beyond Bantry; you have heard of Bantry Bay?"
"Oh, I dare say! I am not sure," says Lady Rodney, pettishly, who is rather annoyed at the idea of his going to Ireland, having other plans in view for him.
"Ever heard of Botany Bay?" asks he, idly; but, this question being distinctly frivolous, she takes no notice of it. "Well, it's in Ireland," he goes on, after a slight but dignified pause. "You have heard of the Emerald Isle, I suppose? It's the country where they grow potatoes, and say 'bedad'; and Bantry is somewhere south, I think. I'm never very sure about anything: that's one of my charms."
"A very doubtful charm."
"The name of the place I mean to stay at—my own actual property—is