Violet dawdled over her change of dress as she had dawdled in the stable. She had never been more particular about her hair.
"I'll have it all taken down, Phoebe," she told her Abigail; "I'm in no hurry."
"But really, miss, it's beautiful——"
"Nonsense after a windy ride; don't be lazy, Phoebe. You may give my hair a good brushing while I read."
A tap at the door came at this moment, and Phoebe ran to open it.
"Mrs. Tempest wishes Miss Tempest to come down to the drawing-room directly," said a voice in the corridor.
"There now, miss," cried Phoebe, "how lucky I didn't take your hair down. It never was nicer."
Violet put on her black dress, costly and simple as the attire Polonius recommended to his son. Mrs. Tempest might relieve her costume with what bright or delicate hues she liked. Violet had worn nothing but black since her father's death. Her sole ornaments were a pair of black earrings, and a large black enamel locket, with one big diamond shining in the middle of it, like an eye. This locket held the Squire's portrait, and his daughter wore it constantly.
The Louis Quatorze clock on the staircase struck five as Violet went down.
"Of course he is staying for tea," she thought, with an impatient shrug of her shoulders. "He belongs to the tame-cat species, and has an inexhaustible flow of gossip, spiced with mild malevolence. The kind of frivolous ill-nature which says: 'I would not do anyone harm for the world, but one may as well think the worst of everybody.'"