But when three weeks had passed, and society was loudly whispering that Congressman Desha was Miss Van Lew’s latest victim, succeeding George Merrington in her good graces, the lover began to chafe under the gossip, and reminded his idol that she had promised to end his probation in three weeks.
Viola turned pale and pleaded for more time. She saw a shadow cross his face, and he asked, abruptly:
“Viola, can I trust you? Do you really love me, or are you simply trifling with my honest, manly love?”
The sternness of his voice frightened Viola, who was always in terror lest he might find out the truth about Florian or George Merrington, and hate her for her coquetry.
She faltered:
“I will give you such a proof of my love that you can not doubt me any longer. If you will keep the secret of our engagement until I give you leave to speak, you may ask papa for me at any time you wish and name the wedding-day.”
He caught her little velvety soft hands and covered them with ardent kisses.
“Oh, my dearest one, my beautiful love, how I thank you for these sweet concessions!” he cried, rapturously, and added, happily: “I shall speak to your father tomorrow, and with your permission I shall name an early date for the wedding. I am too impatient to wait long for my happiness!”
“Very well,” she answered, meekly and willingly, for with every day her reluctance to write the truth to Florian grew greater. Part of it was pity for the pain she must inflict on the true heart that loved her so, and part of it was something like fear.
She had remembered with alarm her playful threats, that during his absence she might find some one she loved better than himself, and his quick exclamation: