"And what became of you?" she asked, with that absent, abrupt way peculiar to her.
The captain passed his hand down his thick, dark mustache, and looked at her.
"I will tell you some day," he said, "as I threatened. Suffice it for the present that I was held captive for two years far away beyond the hills—ay, outside the pale of civilization. It was a miserable time; to look back upon it even now, in this comfortable room and with your interested face, my dear young lady, before me, gives me an unpleasant sensation. The Hindoos are the connecting link between the man and the monster!"
And, with this figurative conclusion, the captain rose and walked to the bureau to turn over the leaves of the Battle of Prague, with which the vicar's wife was about to favor the company.
Leicester Dodson dropped into the vacant seat, Violet drawing her skirts out of the way of his long legs.
"And have you not played yet?" he asked.
Violet woke from her absent fit and shook her head.
"Not yet," she said. "I am not fond of my own music. You will play or sing, will you not?"
"I can do neither," he said. "I have a voice that would shame a crow."
Violet laughed her full, sweet, mirthful laugh.