CHAPTER XXX.
RIVALS STILL.
Philip Desha, dawdling behind the curtain, caught the sound of that musical voice, and his heart leaped violently with blended pain and pleasure as he thrust aside a slight fold and peered out into the studio to assure himself that he was not deceived, not dreaming, but possessed of his sober senses.
Yes, there she stood!
Viola herself—not the rosy, smiling Viola of the portrait, but a woman far more beautiful, now that sorrow and illness had touched her with refining fingers—Viola, pale and slender and wan, with great, somber gray eyes gazing at him out of that exquisite pale face, thrown into strong relief by the blackness of her mourning garments.
She had a companion; but Florian scarcely noticed the beautiful, golden-haired young creature as he gasped in deep agitation:
“Viola!”
“Yes, Florian,” she answered, gently, coming forward to him, and adding: “You see, I forgive you for that night, and bear you no ill-will. Indeed, I have come to ask a favor at your hands.”
“A favor?” he muttered, gazing eagerly at her pale and lovely face, his heart beginning to thump furiously against his side, then sinking with futile regret for that night when his revengeful haste had lost him her heart forever.
“Well, love and pain