Before Rosa could answer, Violante’s partner brought her back. James drew out of sight for a moment. Away from the overpowering force of Hugh’s reality, he was possessed by a lively interest in the strange turns events were taking. He studied the situation as if it had been a work of art and he a collector, not cynically or critically, but with the affectionate interest of an amateur in picturesque episodes.
Violante looked bright-eyed and rosy.
“Did you see, Rosina? I have been dancing. That was such a nice partner! I was not afraid of him long. And there is his picture. Did you see?”
“Oh, yes, dear; I saw it all,” said Rosa; while James thought: “Not inconsolable!” Suddenly Violante looked up and saw him. She turned pale, then suddenly out of her eyes flashed a look of unspeakable joy, that outshone her childish gaiety and put it out of sight. She glanced all round the room with an eagerness more touching and convincing than any degree of alarm or agitation; and, perhaps, her stage-training in self-command stood her in good stead, for she made no scene, but took James’s offered hand, and looked in his face with a look of happy expectation that touched him more than he could say.
“So you have come to England, mademoiselle,” he said. “Do you like it? I have been talking to your sister, and she tells me you met my cousin—in Italy.”
“Signor Arthur!” exclaimed Violante, with instant comprehension.
“Yes—Arthur Spencer—do you recollect him?”
“Oh, yes! he told me about England,” said Violante, eagerly; but even while she spoke the brightness began to fade out of her face. She knew that Hugh was not there, and that James was not going to speak to her about him. He, on his side, felt the attitude he was forced to assume so embarrassing that he gladly availed himself of the first excuse to turn away. She, poor child, could only feel that suddenly her part in this delightful party became like a part in a play. She must act her own character, crush back her surprise and pain, and look as usual. Perhaps, nothing but long habit could have enabled her to do so; she found herself smiling her old stage smile, her fingers felt cold as they used to do at the opera, her eyes took their old stupid look, and the music surged in her ears like the music of the opera orchestra. She was not going to cry or faint now any more than then, but all her sweet spontaneous pleasure was destroyed.
“I felt as if I was acting,” was all she said to Rosa, afterwards, when the confusing scene was over, and she and her sister were alone.
“My darling,” said Rosa, “it was too hard that your pleasure should be spoilt like this.” Rosa was sitting by their bed-room lire, and Violante, half-undressed, sat on the rug leaning against her knees. She did not answer for a moment, and then said, rather imperiously: