How like a dream that far-off day appears!
There is a bit of wood fire burning on the hearth when they return, for Violet remembers that Gertrude is always cold. The table is simple and yet exquisite. Marcia is crazed with the china and some silver spoons that date to antiquity or the first silversmiths.
"If I had money," she begins, when her appetite is a little sated,—"if I had money I should have a house of my own, kept just to my fancy, with an old French servant like Denise, only"—glancing around—"it must be severely artistic. It is so hard that women cannot make fortunes!" with a long sigh.
"I should enjoy one made for me quite as well," rejoins Gertrude, who is always annoyed by Marcia's assumptions of or longings for manhood.
"What a lucky girl you are, or will be if Floyd's plans come out right," and Marcia nods to Violet. "Only I should hate all that wretched waiting!"
"How long must I wait?" There is a lurking smile in Violet's brown eyes.
"How long?—don't you know?" accenting the words with surprise. "Why this is quite a mystery. I have heard of heiresses being kept in the dark for evil purposes," and Marcia gives her head an airy toss. "Have you never seen your father's will? Until you are twenty-five—but I shouldn't feel at all obliged to Floyd for tying it up so securely. I dare say he could have persuaded your father differently!"
Violet colors with a curious sense of displeasure. Gertrude gives a warning look, and for fear of that failing in its mission, touches Marcia's foot under the table.
"I suppose he—they both did what they thought best," Violet says, hurt somehow at the signal and a consciousness of some secrecy.
"Oh, of course, of course! Men always do take their own way; they think they are so much wiser than women, selfish beings!" exclaims Marcia, on another tack. Gertrude bestirs herself to make a diversion, but a latent wonder lingers in Violet's mind. She does not really care about any knowledge being kept away from her, and she has known all along that she was something of an heiress. Did not Mr. Grandon admit that when they talked about the trousseau? A sense of mystery comes up about her like a thick, gray mist, and she shivers. She cannot tell why, but the joy of the day is over.