“No-o; of course not, ma mère—not exactly. Only—I like him. There, ‘I done tole you!’ as the darkies say.”
A spasm of pain convulsed Rosamond Arleigh’s fair face for a moment and her form trembled perceptibly.
Violet started in alarm.
“What a selfish thing I am!” she exclaimed. “Here I am keeping you here when you ought to go to your own room and lie down. Come, dear; I can not return to my guests and know that you are out here alone and ill. And there is Leonard coming now; he is looking for me. Will you not let me go upstairs with you, mamma?”
More to satisfy Violet than for any other reason, Rosamond Arleigh arose to her feet and allowed her daughter to lead her into the hall, which runs through the center of the house, and up the broad staircase, half hidden in flowers.
The band was playing sweetly, sadly, by way of interlude, “Ah, che le morte!”
Rosamond Arleigh’s eyes grew misty.
“‘Ah, I have sighed to rest me deep in the quiet grave!
But all in vain I crave——’”
She stopped abruptly. She had spoken the words half aloud, and Violet had heard them.