On both of these occasions Viola had perforce to make herself agreeable to the young congressman, for she did not like to offend Florian by a contrary course. So she remained a short while on each call, and she pretended a simple friendliness with Professor Desha. He had to acknowledge to himself that she was fascinating, yet he could not say that he had observed the least coquetry in her manner, the least effort to win his admiration. Perhaps, he said to himself, she did not consider him worth her while. He knew that Florian Gay’s heart was at her feet, and supposed that this would afford her sufficient present amusement.
Yet he looked forward with secret pleasure to meeting her again at the studio. How beautiful she had looked in the rich artistic room, and how much more womanly and sweet she had appeared than when in social circles surrounded by the inevitable group of admirers!
But he did not meet her at the studio again.
The sittings for the portraits came to an abrupt end.
Florian Gay came unexpectedly one day to call upon his betrothed.
He was pale and agitated. She saw at once that he had received bad news.
A cablegram from his aged mother had conveyed the news that his father had suffered a stroke of paralysis at Carlsbad Springs, whither he had gone a few months previous for his health.
They had anxiously desired to have Florian accompany them, but his passion for Viola had made him refuse. He could not tear himself away from the land that held his idol. He remained, and was rewarded by Viola’s acceptance of his suit.
But now he must acquiesce in his mother’s entreaty for his presence by the couch of his dying father. He must go, and there was no telling how long he might be obliged to stay, paralysis was such an uncertain disease. The invalid might die before he reached Germany, or he might linger for months. He might even get well again.
Florian was deeply grieved, and most anxious to go to his father; but the pain of leaving Viola tore his jealous heart like a keen knife.