He met Viola at a reception, and in due course of time, to quote an envious rival, “his scalp dangled, with dozens of others, at her belt.” In return he caught her fancy, and the flirtation became pronounced. In it she found a spice of delicious tenderness, a subtle attraction that she took for love.
He begged to paint Viola’s portrait, and accompanied by her chaperon—a good-natured old aunt—she gave him several sittings.
Before the end of the sittings they became engaged, though Florian secretly chafed at the secrecy she imposed.
“I should like to ask your father and make it public, so that those other fellows—confound them!—would quit dangling after you,” he said, betraying a spice of jealousy inherent in his nature.
But Viola put aside his entreaties.
“I like to have them dangling after me, as you call it,” she cried, laughingly. “I like to be admired, and when I am married I wish to be able to say that I had first refused a hundred suitors.”
He could not help crying:
“Heavens, what idle vanity! Have you no mercy on the men, Viola?”
“Oh, it does not hurt. They soon go away and forget,” she replied, lightly.
“I do not think that I should soon forget if you had rejected me. I fancy it would have been a very serious matter to me,” Florian Gay replied, quite gravely; but his betrothed only laughed at him.