Then Lord Fitz took up his hat and nervously said good-by.
The midday post brought a letter from Mr. Thaxton.
He would have the honor of waiting upon Miss Mildmay on the morrow.
The letter broke the dreary monotony of the day, for Violet had kept to her rooms and put in no appearance at dinner.
The evening was setting in, cool and pleasant, the air seemed to woo her from her retreat.
She caught up her sun-hat, and with an attempt at gayety ran downstairs onto the lawn.
Opening a side gate, she stepped into the lane.
Still keeping up the effort to appear gay, if she really was not, she tripped along, singing, in a low, sweet voice, a merry refrain, the very refrain which she had sung with Lord Fitz.
The lane was a pretty one, little used, the grass in its center being scarcely trodden, and Violet, in her light muslin, looked like some Pagan pastoral divinity dropped from Paradise to cull earth's flowers. Beautiful, indeed, she looked to Leicester Dodson as, coming round the green, flower-grown corner, he came suddenly upon her.
"What a beautiful evening," he said, scarcely knowing what she said. "I have been gathering some wild flowers."