Mrs. Rutledge smiled an acid smile.
“There was something like jealousy between them, I believe, over Harold Arleigh,” she returned, in an indifferent tone; “but I do not think it amounted to much; and, anyway, Rosamond won him, and so she could afford to be magnanimous. But I must confess, Violet, that I do not think your mother ever really liked Mrs. Yorke. I am sure that there was no love lost between them, and that is why she opposed Leonard’s calling here so often.”
“Opposed Leonard—Mr. Yorke—calling here?” repeated Violet, in amazement. “Why, Aunt Constance, that is the first I ever heard of it. Why—the very last night that she—the night of my ball, she was speaking to me of Leonard in the kindest and most affectionate way, I am sure you are mistaken, auntie; mamma did like Leonard.”
“Well, well! you need not go into hysterics over it. I suppose it is so since you say so. But suppose, Violet, that there was really anything serious between you and Leonard—(why, you are blushing like a peony)—would you marry him against your mother’s wishes?”
Silence! Violet shook her head.
“No, I would not marry any man of whom my darling mother did not approve,” she said, slowly; “but then I know that mamma did approve of Leonard, for she told me so.”
“Mamma”—Hilda’s voice broke in upon Violet’s eager words—“why do you speak of such folly as Leonard Yorke caring for Violet? You know that he cares for some one else.”
Violet turned to her cousin, pale and trembling.
“Explain, Hilda!” she said, quickly. “I do not understand you.”
But Hilda tossed her pretty dark head and laughed derisively.