Will’s bronzed face flushed crimson, then grew pale and stern.
“I have seen her for a few moments,” he returned, coldly, “and she—she froze me out, Miss Violet.”
“I must tell you about the poem,” Violet was beginning, hesitatingly.
Poor child! she was half afraid to confess her delinquency and acknowledge that she had lost his precious effusion. But, still fated to go on in this odd game of cross-purposes, Will cut in sharply:
“No matter; I know. There is no need to explain, or, in fact, to mention it at all. Jessie Glyndon is a flirt—a coquette. She has never cared for me from first to last.”
“Oh, Will!”
“It is true—true—true!” he cried, rising to his feet and beginning to pace up and down the room in mad haste. “She has proved the truth to me this day. Violet, I believe that I shall go away from Louisiana—quit the whole country—cut it all—run over to Texas and turn cowboy or something. I’m dead tired of civilization as it is found here. And then, some day, when I hear that Jessie is married to some one who suits her—some one good enough and proud enough, and, above all, rich enough to please Miss Jessie Glyndon—I will come back.”
He paused, quite out of breath, his eyes flashing, his white teeth gnawing fiercely at the heavy dark mustache which shaded his handsome upper lip.
“Jessie is not mercenary,” ventured Violet, swift to speak in her friend’s defense.
“No? Well, I am pleased to hear it; but I must beg leave to differ with you there. I see it all. I am only poor Will Venners, a retired army officer; but I am only thirty-three, and I have won my shoulder-straps—won them in good, hard fights on the Colorado plains, facing the red devils, under Custer. I am proud of my record, Miss Violet, and I shall be proud of it should a dozen Miss Glyndons regard me with contempt.”