Ethel had seen them go. At last, unable to restrain her impatience, she followed them halfway to the river. She met Lord Chester returning alone.
Ethel stood still, looking at Arthur with her whole soul in her dark, passionate eyes.
He struggled with his feelings for a moment, then the pain and imploring in her face won his pity. He took her hand, whispering gently:
"Dear Ethel!"
"Oh, Arthur, you forgive me!" she panted, and leaned her regal head against his shoulder.
The humility of the proud girl won for her more than all her pride could have done—his pitying regard. He put his arm tenderly about her, and held her close for a moment, and he could never tell why she lifted her head so suddenly and drew back in silent pain.
As she leaned against him the odor of crushed violets came to her with sickening sweetness—violets, her sister's favorite flowers. She had seen Precious wearing them awhile ago, and she guessed that now they were hidden on Lord Chester's breast. She would hate them now all her life, those purple-blue globes of elusive sweetness.
But she dared not give voice to her jealous pain. She could only smile up in his face and murmur:
"You forgive me, dear? You will love me again?"