"I can bear it better if Rorie is with us," she thought, "and he is almost sure to come. He would not be so unkind as to delay bidding welcome to such poor lonely creatures as mamma and I."
She looked at her little watch—a miniature hunter in a case of black enamel, with a monogram in diamonds, one of her father's last gifts. It was one o'clock already, and luncheon would be at half-past.
"Only half-an-hour for Rorie," she thought.
The minute-hand crept slowly to the half-hour, the luncheon-gong sounded below, and there had been no announcement of Mr. Vawdrey.
"He may be downstairs with mamma all this time," thought Vixen. "Forbes would not tell me, unless he were sent."
She went downstairs and met Forbes in the hall.
"Oh, if you please, ma'am, Mrs. Tempest does not feel equal to coming down to luncheon. She will take a wing of chicken in her own room."
"And I don't feel equal to sitting in the library alone, Forbes," said Violet; "so you may tell Phoebe to bring me a cup of tea and a biscuit. Has nobody called this morning?"
"No, ma'am."
Vixen went back to her room, out of spirits and out of temper. It was unkind of Rorie, cold, neglectful, heartless.