Violet flushed.
"Indeed, no. It is not a favorite walk—at least, not particularly so—and I am sure you are welcome to come. What nonsense. It is as much yours as mine, and I seem to be making you a present of it," and she laughed.
Then the "Battle of Prague" came to an end, and the captain led Mrs. Tonson to a seat with profuse compliments upon her style and touch.
"Are you fond of music, Captain Murpoint?" asked Violet.
"I adore it," said the captain, seating himself by her side, and looking, with a smile, at Leicester, who regarded him with his usual grim reserve. "Music is the language of women and angels. Are you not going to sing?"
Violet shook her head at first.
"Will you not?" said Leicester, earnestly, bending the regard of his dark eyes on her.
Then she changed her mind, and, placing her hand upon the captain's arm, allowed him to take her to the piano.
Leicester remained where he was, and, thrusting his hands into his pockets, stretched out his long legs, and watched her beneath his dark, heavy eyebrows.
He had seen beautiful women of all countries—Circassians with pearly skin and rosebud lips, Spanish señoras with almond eyes and passionate, low-strung voices, Italians with fire-lit laughter and lithe grace—but none whose beauty touched and warmed him as the pure, sweet, loveliness of this willful English rose did.