“Violets?” he asked, his eyes travelling from the little cluster of blossoms and leaves in her hand to the soft pink of her cool, moist cheeks.
“Yes, for the guest chamber,” answered Holly.
“You are expecting a visitor?” he asked, his thoughts turning to Julian Wayne.
“Stupid!” said Holly. “Your room is the guest room. Didn’t you know it? Wait, please, and I’ll put them in water for you.”
She came back while Winthrop was taking off his rain-coat. The violets were nodding over the rim of a little glass. Winthrop thanked her and bore them up-stairs. The next morning Holly came from her Aunt’s room, the door of which was opposite Winthrop’s across the broad hall. His door was wide open and on the bureau stood the violets well in the angle of a two-fold photograph frame of crimson leather. Holly paused in the middle of the hall and looked. It was difficult to see the photographs, but one was the likeness of a child, while the other, in deeper shadow, seemed to be that of a woman. She had never been in the room since Winthrop had taken possession, but this morning the desire to enter was strong. She listened, glancing apprehensively at the closed door of her Aunt’s room. There was no danger from that direction, and she knew that Winthrop had gone to the village. Fearsomely, with thumping heart and cheeks that alternately paled and flushed, she stole across the floor to the bureau. Clasping her hands behind her, lest they should unwittingly touch something, she leaned over and examined the two portraits. The one on the left was that of a young woman of perhaps twenty-two years. So beautiful was the smiling oval face with its great dark eyes that Holly almost gasped as she looked. The dress, of white shimmering satin, was cut low, and the shoulders and neck were perfect. A rope of small pearls encircled the round throat and in the light hair, massed high on the head, an aigrette tipped with pearls lent a regal air to beauty. Holly looked long, sighing she scarcely knew why. Finally she drew her eyes away and examined the other photograph, that of a sturdy little chap of four or five years, his feet planted wide apart and his chubby hands holding tight to the hoop that reached to his breast. Round-faced, grave-eyed and curly-haired, he was yet a veritable miniature of Winthrop. But the eyes were strongly like those in the other picture, and Holly had no doubts as to the identity of each subject. Holly drew away, gently restored a fallen violet, and hurried guiltily from the room.
Winthrop did not return for dinner that day, but sent a note by a small colored boy telling them that he was dining with the Major. Consequently the two ladies were alone. When the dessert came on Miss India said:
“I think Mr. Winthrop would relish some of this clabber for his supper, Holly. It will do him good. I’ll put it in the safe, my dear, and don’t let me forget to get it out for him this evening.”
“I don’t reckon he cares much for clabber, Auntie.”
“Not care for clabber! Nonsense, my dear; everyone likes clabber. Besides, it’s just what he ought to have after taking dinner at the hotel; I don’t reckon they’ll give him a thing that’s fit to eat. When your father was alive he took me to Augusta with him once and we stopped at a hotel there, and I assure you, Holly, there wasn’t a thing I could touch! Such tasteless trash you never saw! I always pity folks that have to live at hotels, and I do wish the Major would go to Mrs. Burson’s for his meals.”