‘I do not think you like them the better for being his,’ said Theodora.
‘I ought,’ said Violet; ‘no other great man ever seems to me so grand as our own Earl.’
‘I want your real feeling.’
‘You know,’ said Violet, smiling, ‘I cannot think them done only for Johnnie’s sake—’
‘And, therefore, they do not please you.’
‘Not exactly that; but—if you don’t mind my saying so, I feel as if I had rather—it might be better—I don’t want to be ungrateful, but if you were getting into a scrape for the sake of pleasing me, I should be sorry. Forgive me, Theodora, you made me say so.’
‘You are consideration itself,’ said Theodora, affectionately. ‘Never mind, he is out of the way. We will let him go off poetizing to Germany; and under your wing at home, I will get into no more mischief.’
That was a pleasant prospect, and Violet reposed on the thought of the enjoyment of Martindale without its formidable inhabitants; trying in it to forget the pain of parting with her husband for a month, and her longings to spend it at her own home, and see Johnnie strengthened by Helvellyn breezes; while to Theodora it seemed like the opening into peace and goodness.
One forenoon, Violet, on coming down-stairs, found her sister writing extremely fast, and seeing an envelope on the table in Lord Martindale’s writing, asked if it was his answer to Theodora’s plan.
‘Yes.’