Be kinsfolk twain;
Yet would, oh, would, I could love again!”
Viola was the more self-possessed of the two, calm, quiet, and gently deprecating, as she repeated:
“Yes, a favor, but first let me present you to my cousin, Miss Sweetland. Dear Mae, this is an old friend of mine, Mr. Gay.”
They bowed to each other, and Florian could not help seeing that the young girl was very lovely, even when contrasted with peerless Viola.
He hastened to place seats for them, wondering uneasily what Desha would think, but hoping devoutly he would remain hidden behind the curtain.
Viola continued, gently and frankly:
“If you can forgive my past folly, and be friends again, I wish you to paint a life-size picture for me from a photograph of my dead husband. Will you do it, Florian?”
Viola did not mean to wound him, but her words quivered like an arrow in his heart. He started, paled, then exclaimed, almost violently:
“How can you ask me? No, I will not do it!”