She smiled up into his face, her dark eyes full of a tender light.
“I am afraid that it is true Leonard,” she returned, demurely.
“Then you do love me?” he cried, rapturously, drawing her closer to his heart.
The shy eyes drooped.
“Yes; I love you,” she whispered, softly. “I think I have always done that, Leonard, ever since—ever since I knew you.”
“And I may speak to your mother to-morrow, darling?” he persisted. “I can not wait any longer. I want you, Violet; and my home is waiting for a mistress—a queen to reign over it. And my mother will be glad, I am sure.”
Violet shook her head dubiously.
He was the only son of his mother, and she was a widow—a very dignified and arbitrary woman, with a pride second to none—an overbearing, tyrannical pride which ruled and dominated all her life.
Would she welcome to her home the girl who would henceforth usurp her place in that home, as she had already in the heart of her son?
Violet turned away with a strange, cold feeling settling down over her heart.