“Helen does not know what the word ‘heroic’ means,” said Harley, rather sadly; “you must teach her.”
“Is it possible,” thought he as he spoke, “that a Randal Leslie could have charmed this grand creature? No ‘Heroic’ surely, in that sleek young placeman.—Your father,” he said aloud, and fixing his eyes on her face, “sees much, he tells me, of a young man about Leonard’s age, as to date; but I never estimate the age of men by the parish register, and I should speak of that so-called young man as a contemporary of my great-grandfather,—I mean Mr. Randal Leslie. Do you like him?”
“Like him,” said Violante, slowly, and as if sounding her own mind,—“like him—yes.”
“Why?” asked Harley, with dry and curt indignation. “His visits seem to please my dear father. Certainly I like him.”
“Hum. He professes to like you, I suppose?”
Violante laughed unsuspiciously. She had half a mind to reply, “Is that so strange?” But her respect for Harley stopped her. The words would have seemed to her pert. “I am told he is clever,” resumed Harley.
“Oh, certainly.”
“And he is rather handsome. But I like Leonard’s face better.”
“Better—that is not the word. Leonard’s face is as that of one who has gazed so often upon Heaven; and Mr. Leslie’s—there is neither sunlight nor starlight reflected there.”
“My dear Violante?” exclaimed Harley, overjoyed; and he pressed her hand.