"Oh, you have come!" she cries. "I am so glad."
He takes both hands in his, and if the servants were not about, he would draw down the sweet, blooming face and kiss it. There is an eager light in her eyes, a quiver about the rose-red mouth, a certain abandon that is very fascinating.
"Yes," he replies. "It was an awful bore! No game, nor anything but stupid card-playing. Wished myself home fifty times. How lovely you look!" and his eyes study her so closely that she flushes in a ravishing fashion.
"Are you tired to death? I have so much for you to do. There is a German to-night at Madame Lepelletier's, and we are all going. We have a guest, a young lady."
He gives a whistle, and the delight in his face vanishes more rapidly than it ought.
"A Miss Murray," Violet goes on. "You cannot help liking her: I do."
"Then I shall," he returns, with a meaning laugh.
"When you are rested——" Violet begins.
"Oh, I slept like a top! Nothing could keep me awake but a troubled conscience. When I get the dust of ages washed off and make myself presentable I will hunt you up. Where shall I look? Only—I'd like to have you a little glad for your own sake. You might care that much."
"Why, I am glad, I did miss you," she says, daintily. "We are in the summer-house reading novels."