Gertrude passes her arm over Violet's shoulder, and draws her down to the soft, silk cushioned tête-à-tête. Her shawl lies over the arm,—she did not wear it in to dinner.
"You wouldn't imagine," she begins, suddenly, "that any one would care to marry me. I never supposed——"
"It is the professor!" cries Violet, softly. "He loves you. Oh, how delightful!"
"Why, did he tell you?"
"I never thought until this instant. That is why you are both so new and strange, and why your cheeks are a little pink! O Gertrude, do you love him?"
Her face is a study in its ardent expectation, its delicious joy. What does this girl know of love?
"Why—I—of course I like him, Violet. I could not marry a man I did not like, or a man who was not kindly or congenial." Then she remembers how very slight an opportunity Violet had to decide whether Floyd would be congenial or not, and is rather embarrassed. "We are not foolish young lovers," she explains, "but I do suppose we shall be happy. He is so kind, so warmhearted; he makes one feel warmed and rested. It did so surprise me, for I had not the faintest idea. I used to stay with you because——"
"Well, because what?" Violet is deeply interested in the least reason for all this strange denouement.
"Because I never wanted any one to say that you, that he," Gertrude begins to flounder helplessly, "were too much alone."
"Who would have said that?" Violet's face is a clear flame, and her dimpled mouth shuts over something akin to indignation.