"But after Aunt Gertrude is married we shall stay at home, and there will be stories and stories. And you might like to go to Denise," she suggests, with admirable art. "Briggs could drive you in the pony carriage."
The temptation is too great. She has winked rather hard to make tears come, and now she ungratefully winks them away again and dances for joy.
It is almost noon when they reach the Latimers'. Their house is about as large as madame's, but it has a greater air of carelessness, of disorder in its most charming estate. John Latimer lives all over it, and there are books and papers everywhere, and bric-à-brac in all the corners. The redwood mantel in the sitting-room is shelved nearly up to the ceiling, and tiled around the grate, and is just one picture of beauty. The easy-chairs are around the fire, and softest rugs are laid for your feet. Violet sits down in the glow and feels at home, smiles, blossoms, and surprises herself at her gift of adaptiveness.
The lunch is simple and informal; the men retire to Mr. Latimer's den to smoke and take counsel. Floyd discusses his literary plans and receives much encouragement. There are three small children in the nursery, and thither the ladies find their way. Violet charms them all; even the baby stretches out his hands to come to her. They talk of Cecil, and Mrs. Latimer, by some magic known to herself, draws out of Violet a deliciously naive confession of that romantic episode when she first saw Mr. Grandon.
"Cecil is so rarely beautiful," she says, with the most perfect admiration. "She might not have been killed,—I really do not think she would have been,—but I can understand how terribly Mr. Grandon would hate to have her marred or disfigured in any way. She has the most perfect complexion, and no sun or wind seems to injure it. And you cannot think what an apt pupil she is in music; she plays some exercises very cunningly already, and she is learning French sentences."
Violet's face is a study of delight, of unselfish affection. Mrs. Latimer bends over and kisses her, and Violet clasps her arms about the other's neck.
"You play," she says, presently. "Do you sing any? Come down and try my piano; it is a new upright, and very fine tone."
"I do not sing many of the pretty new songs," says Violet, modestly, "nor Italian. My music and my German teacher was the same person and a German. He liked the old Latin hymns."
She plays without any special entreaty, and plays more than simply well, with taste, feeling, and correctness. You can see that she loves the really fine and impassioned in music, that show and dash have had no place in her training. She sings very sweetly with a mezzo-soprano voice that is clear and tender.
"You need never be afraid to play or sing," is Mrs. Latimer's quiet verdict; and though Violet does not specially regard the commendation now, it is afterward of great comfort.