The sweet eyes filled with tears again. Had she left all love behind in the grand city guarded by the Golden Gate?
The room grew dusky. The maid came in to light up, and glanced sharply at them.
"Oh, what an unconscionable visit I have been making," and yet he laughed lightly, not at all troubled by the proprieties that he had really outraged—and he knew better.
How very charming he was, standing up there, just medium height, with one of the figures that is often likened to Mercury or Ganymede. The rich tinted Spanish complexion, the dark melting eyes, when he smiled—could they ever look fierce? the narrow mustache, leaving the red line on the short upper lip, the chin rounded out with youth and health, the hands dainty enough for a lady. They reached over and held hers, the eyes smiled into hers, but all the same there came a sharp pang at his going.
"For the next two weeks I shall be awfully busy," he explained. "Then come the Christmas holidays. I didn't have any last year. I just stayed and ground in the mill. I was bound to reach a certain point. But now I shall spend a week in London. I think I can persuade Mrs. Westbury to admit me."
Why should she not? Laverne thought.
A happy girl sat down to her solitary meal. She was no longer lonely. Christmas was near. Of next summer she would not think.
A letter came from Mrs. Westbury with news that scarcely touched Laverne, and perhaps after all had not much of real sadness in it. They had gone to Wrexford Grange to settle some important business, and before it was finished the poor old paralytic, who for the last year had been scarcely conscious of anything but breathing, had passed out of life. Lord Wrexford had insisted upon their staying until after the funeral. Would she mind if she gave up the Liscombes' dance? Mrs. Leigh would be pleased to chaperon her, but it would be in better taste to remain at home.
Laverne did this cheerfully. To be sure, the days were rather lonely, but the driving and a little shopping and going to some picture exhibitions with Mrs. Leigh filled them up.
There was a pile of notes and invitations on Mrs. Westbury's desk when she returned. Laverne often answered the least important. Between them she sandwiched Wrexford Grange. It was an old, old estate, the title dating back for more than three hundred years, and though it had been neglected of late could be put in excellent order again. Such grand rooms, such a splendid hall, such a great stone stairway with oaken railing. Family portraits and a copy of the First Charles,—the Wrexfords had been royalists,—but all these things had been hidden away until the accession of the son, with the old family silver, rather clumsy, she thought, but she was wise enough to know that age redeemed it.