As if in answer to her aspiration, she heard a ring at the front door, and some one being ushered into the hall.
With a muffled heart-beat of joy, Viola sprang to her feet, waiting with shining eyes and parted, smiling lips for the entrance of her lover.
The heavy curtains at the door were thrust aside by an eager white hand, and he stepped quickly over the threshold toward the eager, waiting girl, catching her to his heart, pressing passionate lips to hers, then holding her off to gaze fondly into her glorious eyes while he murmured, thrillingly:
“My love—my love!”
From the girl’s white lips came a stifled moan of pain as if he had thrust a dagger into her heart.
For the voice was not Philip Desha’s, and instead of his calm, tender blue eyes she met the dark, sparkling gaze of Florian Gay.
She could never explain to herself afterward why she did not faint on the spot, for all her strength seemed to fail her, and her face grew as white as the face of a corpse. It must have been the horrible fear of Philip coming at any moment and surprising her in the midst of a terrible interview with her jilted lover. It flashed over her mind that she must get him away as soon as possible.
Florian Gay cried out in tender alarm:
“Viola, my darling, how you tremble, and how pale your sweet face has grown! I did not mean to shock you so; I only meant to give you a pleasant surprise. Sit here on the sofa, darling, and you will be better in a moment,” seating himself by her side, and gazing at her with fond eyes before whose glance she shrank in infinite misery.