Vane remarked that the rain was awfully tiresome, and then looking from the window, whistled an air from “I Puritani” abstractedly, and he said suddenly—
“There’s a lot of affectation, I think, about grief—particularly among women—they like making a fuss about it.”
“To be sure they do,” replied William; “when anyone dies they make such a row—and lock themselves up—and all but take the veil; but, by Jove, they don’t waste much compassion on the living. There are you, for instance, talking and thinking all day, and nightmared all night about her, and for anything you know she never troubles her head about you. It’s awfully ridiculous, the whole thing.”
“I thought you said she was very fond of your poor aunt?” said Vane, a little nettled.
“So I did—so she was—I was speaking of us—you and me—you know. I’m an old friend—the earliest she has almost—and you a lover—no one’s listening—you need not be afraid—and you see how much she distinguishes us—by Jove, she likes old Wagget better!” and William laughed with dismal disgust, and proposed a walk—to which Vane, with a rueful impression that he was a particularly disagreeable fellow, acceded.
CHAPTER LVIII.
REVINGTON FLOWERS.
That very afternoon William did see Violet Darkwell; and he fancied he never saw her look so pretty as in her black silk dress. There was no crying—no scene—she met him gravely and sadly in the old-fashioned drawing-room of the Rectory, and was frankly glad to see him, and her wayward spirit seemed quite laid. His heart smote him for having acquiesced in Trevor’s fancy that there could be affectation in her grief.