Consequently, she came to have a secret angry interest in the delinquent while pretending to hold him in profound contempt.
She knew that he had a noble nature, as Florian said, and that he cherished high ideals. He was good to look at, too, in his blonde type, with his fair hair and beard, and large clear blue eyes, and frank, kindly expression. But Viola would never have thought of him twice if he had fallen at her feet like the rest.
He excited her interest by his own astonishing indifference, and she had many speculations over it, always ending by the explanation that very likely he had a sweetheart in the State he had come from up North—“some goody-goody nonentity like himself.”
She was rather vexed that Florian was fond of him, and was going to paint his portrait, for she might have to meet him at the studio sometimes. Well, she would find out the days he was to come, and stay away herself at those hours.
So her bow, when they passed each other on the steps, was even more cold and uplifted than usual.
“He shall see how little I care for him,” she thought, with a pride that sent the hot blood mantling warmly to her cheek.
She stepped quickly into the carriage, and gentle old Aunt Edwina said:
“What a noble face and head Professor Desha has! Don’t you admire him, Viola?”
“No, not at all,” the young girl answered, huffily.
But in spite of her resolve not to meet her bête noire at the studio again, she encountered him there twice the next week. It was all by the merest chance, for how was she to know what hour he chose for his sittings?