He was a very clever politician, but a mere tyro in matters of the heart.
Viola and her aunt were receiving, assisted by a bevy of handsome matrons and fair young girls. When she saw Desha bowing before her, she gave him a courteous welcome, just tinged with the delicate frostiness under which he had shivered that day at the Capitol.
It was superb acting, for her heart leaped wildly at the conventional touch of his hand.
But she said proudly to herself:
“He shall not know I am glad he came.”
And she looked quickly away from him, without observing that he stood still a minute, half dazed by her marvelous beauty, so richly set off by the silvery white gown and the fire of rubies on her neck and in her hair.
Turning away presently, he sighed, with a paling cheek:
“After all, it was not wise to come. I shall be dreaming of her all night. Heavens! how peerless she is! And, alas! how heartless!”
All at once he began to be afraid of himself, afraid to go near her, lest he should fall down at her feet and declare his passion, so intoxicated had he suddenly become with the charm of her presence. He was almost tempted to run away.
“‘But most of all would I flee from the cruel madness of love,