Montague herself, and Mona's heart instantly warmed toward him
for his politeness as she returned his salute.
"She is the prettiest girl in the house if she _is_ only a waiting-maid,"
he muttered, as he turned for a second to look at the graceful figure
after Mona had passed him. "How finely she carries herself--how
elastic her step!"
Another pair of observing eyes had also caught sight of her by this time,
and mental comments of a far different character were running through a
younger brain.
The smoking-room at Hazeldean was in the third story of the south wing
of the house, and overlooked the avenue and park, as well as a broad
stretch of country beyond, and Ray Palmer, sitting beside one of the
windows--apparently listening to the conversation of his companions, but
really thinking of his interview with Mona the previous evening--espied
his betrothed just as she was leaving the grounds of Hazeldean and
turning into the main road.
He knocked the ashes from his cigar, took another whiff or two, then laid
it down, and turned to his host, who was sitting near him.
"I believe I would like a canter across the country this bright morning,
Mr. Wellington," he remarked. "May I beg the use of a horse and saddle
for a couple of hours?"
"Certainly, Mr. Palmer--whatever I have in the stable in the form of
horses or vehicles is as the disposal of my guests," was the courteous
reply.
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