“That is always your first thought about a man, Viola. Handsome is as handsome does, you know,” returned Mrs. Herman, cautiously. She did not know that her niece had foresworn flirting, and she dreaded her propensities in that line too much to confess to her that Rolfe Maxwell, though slight and pale from recent devastating illness, was one of the most elegant-looking men she had ever beheld—tall and stately, with magnificent Oriental dark eyes and hair, and with a soldierly bearing full of quiet, impressive dignity.
In order to allay Viola’s interest, she added, sympathetically:
“I hope your papa will pay him well for his work, for he looks like he needed it, poor fellow. He is almost shabby, although perfectly neat, and so pale and thin, as if he hardly had enough to eat, although I remember now that your papa said he had been ill, which may account for his ghastly looks.”
She flattered herself that she had entirely squelched any coquettish interest Viola might have in the newcomer, deeming it her duty to do so, for though the girl was to be married in a week, her aunt had full confidence in her ability to break another heart in that brief space of time if she took it into her head to do it.
But Viola was listening carelessly, her thoughts all with Philip, who had said he would call on his way to the Capitol this morning.
He came presently, and was ushered into the morning-room, from which Aunt Edwina discreetly withdrew.
Viola met her lover with a glad smile and blush and did not refuse the kiss he pressed on her dewy red lips.
“We are banished from the library because papa has a man doing some work for him in there,” she said. “Sit down, Philip, dear, while I scold you for breaking your engagement to come last night.”
“I sent you a note explaining that my cousin, Mrs. Wellford, had sent for me,” Professor Desha answered, sitting down on the satin divan by her side and pressing the soft, jeweled hand she slipped into his so confidingly.
“Yes, I received your note. Of course I excused you, though I missed you very much!” Viola cried, with her most sweetly reproachful air. Then she gave a slight start, and added: “Dearest, how pale you are! What is wrong? Are you ill?”