To his eye, dulled by the darkness without, the room looked brilliantly illuminated and seemed to welcome him with the warm and cheery note of home. Viola was standing with her back to him, her elbow on the chimney-piece. When she heard his step on the walk she had made a violent effort to control herself, had tried to rub away the stains of her tears, and had turned the paper flower on the lamp-globe so that the light, as it fell upon her, was subdued.
The colonel was in good spirits. He laid his packages on the table and began opening them.
“Wasn’t that Gault that I saw coming away as I came down the street?” he asked.
Viola said “Yes.”
“Why didn’t you keep him longer? I’d like to have seen him. Look at that pear,” said the old man, holding up a yellow Bartlett that gleamed like wax in the lamplight. “Did you ever see anything finer than that? And there are people who say they don’t like the Californian fruit.”
Viola did not look at the pear, but he was too occupied in his purchases to notice her.
“He ought to have stayed till I came in. You oughtn’t to have let him go. Poor old Gault, coming out in all this wet! It’s a devil of a night. You could cut the fog with a knife. What did he have to say for himself?”
“Nothing much,” said Viola.
“I don’t think myself he’s much of a talker. Now, see what I’ve brought for you.” Viola heard the tearing away of the wrappers that were folded around the candy-box. “Look, young woman; isn’t that tempting?”