"Apologize!" echoed the girl. "As if my mother's daughter could ever stoop to that weak American method of crawling out of things!" and her dark eyes flashed while her olive face became as intense as if the girl were a desperate woman.
"Don't they know that the blood of the de Carlos flows in my veins?" she asked herself. "No, that's so, they do not know it—nor shall they. Let them think me Italian, French or whatever they choose—but let them not trifle with Spain. Ah, Spain! and how I have longed to see that beautiful country with mother—darling mother!"
This thought of affection never failed to soften the temper of the wily Viola. True she had seen fit always to hide her mother's nationality from the schoolgirls. Often they had questioned her about her foreign face and manners, but like many who do not admire the frankness of Americans, it had pleased her to remain simply "foreign."
A supercilious smile crept over Viola's face. She held Adele's note in her hand and read it again.
"Worried about me!" she repeated, "as if they care for anything but excitement and nonsense. And they are aching for me to give the next spasm of excitement! Well, they may get that, sooner than they expect."
A step stopped at her door. Then a light tap sounded on the panel. Casting aside the note, Viola opened the portal and was confronted by Miss Crane. Without waiting for an invitation the pleasant little woman stepped inside.
"Good evening, Viola," she began. "Mrs. Pangborn sent me to have a talk with you."
"Yes?" replied Viola, in her most non-committal tone.
"She has been much worried of late, so many things have been going on that did not add to her peace of mind."
"That's a pity," said Viola, and this time her tone admitted of any number of interpretations. But Miss Crane expected all this and was fully prepared for it.