“Come, auntie, we must be going,” cried Viola, pettishly, waking up her aunt, and taking an abrupt leave in her fear of meeting her lover’s next sitter.
But she did encounter him coming up the steps, a very dignified looking man of medium size, and about thirty years old, with as the artist had remarked, a grave, noble, serene countenance much like the ideal heads of Christ.
They bowed to each other with marked hauteur, and Viola passed on to her waiting carriage.
CHAPTER II.
“Sweetheart, name the day for me,
When we twain shall wedded be.”
Viola had a secret grudge against Professor Desha, but it was so childish, she would have been ashamed to let any one know it.
She was piqued at him because he was the only man she knew who appeared quite indifferent to her charms.
In fact, a spiteful rival had told her that he had expressed himself strongly as holding coquettes in lively detestation.
“He is a simpleton, and nothing would please me better than to break his heart!” exclaimed Viola, scornfully; but whether the young congressman ever heard of this wicked speech or not, he did not give her the chance she wished. He held himself coldly and disapprovingly aloof, and paid attention “to the homeliest girls he met,” so Viola said, “wall-flowers that no one else would look at twice.”