“Poor and proud,” commented Aunt Edwina.
“And you have no slightest idea as to his identity?” Viola cried, anxiously.
“Not the slightest; and I am sorry, for I would like to know such a brave man better. He told me you were sinking for the second time when he dived after you,” returned Desha, generously, though a spasm of pain contracted his heart at her interest in the handsome unknown.
But he could not blame her at all. It would have appeared most ungrateful if she had not taken any interest.
He began to think of going, but still he lingered, feasting his eyes on her lovely pale face that he was promising himself never to see again.
She began to ask him about the gayeties she had missed during her illness, and it gave him the opportunity he desired of saying that he had attended few social functions lately. His time had been occupied with congressional duties, and he had resolved to eschew the delights of society.
“That is too bad,” Viola exclaimed; and it seemed to him as if there was genuine regret in her tones and in the quick glance of her soft eyes.
He wondered, with a furious throb at his heart, if she really took an interest in him, or was it only polite pretense?
Ah, since Fate had made him love her against his will, how glorious it would have been to win her—to teach her the true beauty and sacredness of love, to be proud of her, to realize with her the great happiness of loving and being loved! It staggered him, the trembling hope, the superlative joy of the thought.
Then came a quick revulsion: