She had sighed at thought of her own exquisite trousseau lying unworn, even to the bridal gown, in her trunks at home. What happy hours she had spent over the costly robes fated never to be worn, she thought, stifling the unbidden sigh that heaved her breast.
When she went home she found that several friends had already called, and among the cards was that of Philip Desha. She smiled a little bitterly:
“Perhaps he thinks, like Florian, that he should be loyal to me till I give him an honorable discharge. Well, that will be easy enough.”
But Desha did not call again for some time. It was Inauguration Week, and some of his Northern friends were in the city. In showing them the proper courtesies he found no time for any one else, so that at the last he met Viola first elsewhere.
It was at a reception, one of the first given by the new President. She had unwillingly accompanied her father and aunt, lightening her somber black for the occasion by some bunches of white and purple violets.
They had paid their respects to the new Executive and were getting out of the crush when he came to her side, and their eyes met.
Viola held out her tiny black-gloved hand.
“I am glad to see you, Professor Desha, and sorry I was not at home when you called last week.”
It was the graceful aplomb of the woman of the world, mixed with cordiality that went a little deeper. His heart leaped quickly as he pressed her hand, and asked, eagerly:
“Then I may take the privilege of coming again?”