Mr. Vane Trevor, in pursuance of his prudent resolve, would have avoided this meeting. But so it was. In the crowded church porch, out of which the congregation emerges so slowly, with a sort of decent crush, almost pressed inconveniently against good Miss Perfect, the young gentleman found himself, and in a becoming manner, with a chastened simper, inquiring after their health, and making the proper remarks about the weather.
Aunt Dinah received these attentions very drily; but Miss Vi, in such an arch, becoming little shell-like bonnet, looked perfectly lovely; and to do her justice, was just as friendly as usual.
It was no contrivance of his, the meeting with this bewitching little bonnet where he did. How could he help the strange little thrill with which he found himself so near—and was it in human nature, or even in good manners, to deny himself a very little walk, perhaps only to the church-yard gate, beside Miss Violet Darkwell?
“How is my friend Maubray?” inquired Trevor of Miss Perfect, whom he found himself next.
“I really don’t know—I have not heard—I suppose he is very well,” she answered, with an icy severity that rather surprised the young man, who had heard nothing of the quarrel.
“I must write. I ought to have asked him when he meant to return. I am so anxious for an excuse to renew our croquet on the lawn at Gilroyd.”
This little speech was accompanied with a look which Violet could hardly mistake.
“I don’t think it likely,” said Miss Perfect, in the same dry tone.
“Any time within the next three weeks, the weather will answer charmingly,” continued Trevor, addressing Miss Darkwell.
“But I rather think Miss Darkwell will have to make her papa a little visit. He’s to return on the eighteenth, you remember, my dear; and he says, you know, you are to meet him at Richmond.”