“That he loved you?” said Miss Letty tenderly, trying to help her out,—“Well, that’s very natural on the part of any young man, I’m sure! But who is he?”
Violet perked her head up for a minute, and then burrowed it down again.
“Ah! That’s just it!” she said, in smothered accents. “He is not exactly young.”
“Oh, dear me! Is he old?”
“Oh no!” This answer was most emphatic—“But he isn’t a boy, you know! He is—well—I suppose he is about thirty-five!”
“My dear child! But—before I pass any opinion, or give any advice—will you not just tell me plainly who he is? Does your uncle know him? Do I know him?”
“Everybody knows him!” said Violet. “That’s the worst of it! That’s why I’m afraid you won’t like it! He is Mr. Max Nugent!”
Miss Letty almost jumped out of her chair. Max Nugent, the millionaire!—the man after whom all the “society” beauties of London, Paris, and New York had been running like hunters after a fox,—he in love with little Violet? It seemed strange—almost unnatural—she could scarcely believe it, and in the extremity of her surprise, was quite speechless.
“He says he wishes he was not a millionaire!” said Violet in doleful accents, beginning to twist her hat round and round—“He says he wishes he was just a clerk in an office doing a grind, and coming home to me in a little weeny house! He would be quite content! But he can’t help it! You see, his father left him all the dreadful money,—and the only thing he can use it for is to try to make other people happy. And he thinks I might help him to do that! But there,—I see by your looks you don’t like it!”
A sudden rush of tears filled her eyes, and Miss Letty, recalling her scattered wits, made haste to put her arms round her and comfort her.