Much brooding over the last sentence persuaded him that he owed Viola a duty call.
Evidently she expected it, and—besides, his curiosity was aroused. What reason had she had for skating out so far indeed?
“I will go—just once. Then I must certainly put the little beauty out of my thoughts. One can not play with fire. I must give myself up to my political duties and abjure society,” he decided, grimly.
So he set out for his last call, and when ushered into her charming presence, the young statesman of thirty—cool and self-possessed enough ordinarily—trembled so that he could scarcely speak, so keen was his delight at seeing her again.
Viola had known well that he would come. She had faith in the potency of those well-chosen words, “when I see you again.”
She smiled him a cordial welcome, and it seemed to him that never before had she looked so lovely.
Illness had softened down the exuberant vitality of her beauty, stealing a little roundness and bloom from her cheek, and a little of the mischief from her luminous eyes. There was a delicate, appealing languor in her movements, aided by the trailing house-gown whose warm red tints contrasted so well with her fairness.
“You will pardon me for half reclining among my cushions. I am not strong yet,” she explained.
“Only lazy, professor,” bantered Aunt Edwina, who then went on with her fancy-work in an absent-minded way, as if she had almost forgotten his presence.
Viola set herself to be charming, and presently he overcame his seizure of timidity, that she took in some alarm for indifference.