“You are disappointed, I know, but it was impossible for me to bring Violet,” she cried, inwardly writhing at the sadness of his face.
“I am sure it was not your fault,” he replied, trying to stifle his pain, and speak cheerfully.
“No, indeed, but something has happened that has set grandpapa quite wild. Can you guess what?”
“Violet is not ill again? Don’t tell me that, Amber,” he cried, anxiously, his thoughts flying in terror to his darling.
“No, no, it is not that, Cecil. Violet is well, and wanted to come with me, but grandpapa made her stay at home to entertain—Harold Castello.”
“So he has come?” Cecil cried out, jealously.
“Yes, just an hour ago; and really, Cecil, he is a formidable rival.”
“Handsome, eh?” he asked, trying to speak lightly.
“He is magnificent. Dark as a Spaniard—in fact, grandpapa told me he inherited a strain of Spanish blood—and with the most winning manners, and a low, musical voice,” returned Amber, dwelling at length on Harold Castello’s perfections in order to arouse the demon of jealousy in Cecil’s heart.
She had suffered all the agonies of jealous love herself, and desired that Cecil also should have a taste of that exquisite torture.