Blair started. For a second he had thought of Margaret, though he knew it was Violet Graham whom the earl meant.
"Poor girl! What fools men are!" Then his voice grew pathetic in its earnestness and entreaty. "Blair, is it too late? You owe me something, I think; I know you owe something to your name and all that belongs to it. Is it too late? Think! A woman's love, a good woman's heart is too priceless to be spurned with a light laugh. Blair, I, your kinsman, lying here dying, prefer one request. I do not ask you to spare this old roof or the wealth I leave you, but I do ask you to grasp the happiness within your reach. Will you make Violet your wife?"
Blair rose and paced the room. An agitation which seemed utterly beyond reason worked in his face. The old earl watched him in silence for a moment, then he said with a sigh:
"I understand. You refuse?"
"No," said Blair, "I consent. I will marry Violet, if she wishes it, and, please Heaven, I will try and be less unworthy of her."
The earl raised himself on his elbow, and touched a silver bell, and fell back panting on his cushions, and as Blair bent over him, the door opened, and Violet entered.
Her quick eyes glanced at Blair questioningly, but before either of them could speak, the earl took her hand and said:
"Violet, Blair has asked you of me for his wife. What have you to say?"
Her face went pale, then grew crimson, and she steadied herself by the head of the couch.
"Yes," she breathed, then just touching Blair's hand, she glided past him and fled to her own room.