Nevertheless, the very next afternoon, in obedience to a little note left at his club, Paul walked into her flower-decked drawing-room and gave an exclamation of surprise and concern at the white face and figure on the sofa.
"You have been ill," he said quickly; "why didn't you let me know before?"
"Only a go of fever; and I've danced all night long--some of the dances with you, Paul--when I had a worse bout, and no one found me out. Let me make you a cup of tea."
"Please not. I'll take one. Yes! I remember; that was our regimental ball, and there were so few ladies; you never spared yourself, Violet, never knew how to take care of yourself."
"Perhaps not. I must pay someone to do it, I suppose, like other old women; for all my friends are deserting me. Two married last month, and I hear from Mrs. Woodward that your wedding-day is fixed."
"I was not aware of it," he replied, with a frown; "but if it were, I fail to see why I should desert--my friends."
Mrs. Vane laughed. "My dear Paul! you are something of a man of the world; did you ever know of anyone like you keeping up a friendship with anybody like me after his marriage? I mean out of the pages of a French novel. Certainly not; and I am quite resigned to the prospect. I suffered the blow in a minor degree when you left India. Besides, I should not anyhow see much of you if you lived at Gleneira; and you will have to do so, won't you, till Mr. Woodward recovers himself?"
Paul stirred his tea moodily. "So you have heard, too," he said distastefully.
"Everybody has heard, of course. Such things are a godsend at this time of the year. Lady Dorset was quite pathetic over your bad luck yesterday, but I told her no one would think the worse of you or Miss Woodward if you were to think better of it, since poverty--even comparative poverty--would suit neither of you."
The spirited pose of her head, as she spoke, the bold challenge of her tone, were admirable.