Violet smiled with grave amusement, and did not think fit to enlighten her aunt as to the fate of the hot water, and the captain chimed in as usual from his leaning post outside the veranda, where he smoked a cigar of an evening within speaking distance of the ladies inside.
"I called at Coombe Lodge this morning," he said, with a pause which he filled up with his cigar.
Violet, who lay on a couch, had closed her eyes, but the captain saw that she was not asleep.
"And how is Lady Lackland?" asked Mrs. Mildmay.
"Better I found her, I am glad to say, much better. The earl had not come down yet; parliamentary duties kept him in town I suppose. Pity, a great pity. The peasant in his cot, beneath the blue sky and on the heather-covered hill, is to be envied by an earl in London this weather. By the way," he continued, glancing at Violet and speaking in a low tone as if he were anxious not to awake her, "I heard of rather a damaging trait in Leicester's character."
"Indeed!" said Mrs. Mildmay, very much interested, and looking up from her knitting.
"Yes; Lady Lackland knows more of him than we do, of course; she sees him at balls and concerts, at friends' houses and parties. Mr. Leicester Dodson, so I hear, is a terrible flirt."
"Oh, dear me, I am sorry to hear that," said Mrs. Mildmay, shaking her head over her knitting and entirely unconscious of the sudden pallor which had fallen upon the motionless face opposite her and which the captain had quickly noted.
"Yes, not very dreadful, is it? It is not fair to accuse the young fellow—as nice a young fellow as ever lived!—behind his back, but I do hear two or three stories of broken hearts and scattered vows—but nothing very tangible. But be sure Lady Lackland would not have mentioned it if she had not some grounds for regretting it."