“Nonsense! I have taken a bad cold, that is all,” returned the young girl, unwilling for her aunt to learn what had happened.
“I am sorry for that, Viola, for I hoped you would feel like going with me to the Capitol this morning. I heard that there would be speaking in the House of Representatives today on the Cuban war, and I should like to hear it.”
Viola knew that she should spend a wretched day moping at home alone, so she answered quickly:
“I will go with you, auntie, for I would like to hear the speeches, too. I dare say it will not make my cold any worse.”
“Not if you wrap up warmly, dear, and wear a veil; so I will go and get ready,” returned the kind, unsuspecting old lady, hurrying out again.
Viola dabbled her face with the fragrant waters till all the signs of tears were gone; but she could not smile away the brooding sadness that lay beneath the dark fringe of her lashes—the sadness of trouble and remorse.
She dressed herself carefully in her warmest attire, for the midwinter days were very keen, and she and her aunt set forth for the Capitol, a little gleam of interest flashing into her eyes as she remembered that she was likely to see Philip Desha there.
It was six weeks since she had seen the young congressman. He seemed to have faded from her life, though not from her thoughts.
If Desha had wished to keep himself vividly in Viola’s memory he could not have adopted a better plan than this absence and reserve.
The angry pique that had caused her first interest in him only increased with time, and the smart of his coldness made her wish more ardently to win him, so strange are the contradictions of the human heart.