Violante.—"I will do no such thing. Do you know that I always thought I was good-tempered till this morning."
Harley.—"And what undeceived you? Did you break your doll?"
Violante, (with an indignant flash from her dark eyes).—"There!—again!—you delight in provoking me!"
Harley.—"It was the doll, then. Don't cry; I will get you another."
Violante plucked her arm from him, and walked away towards the Countess in speechless scorn. Harley's brow contracted, in thought and in gloom. He stood still for a moment or so, and then joined the ladies.
"I am trespassing sadly on your morning; but I wait for a visiter whom I sent to before you were up. He is to be here at twelve. With your permission, I will dine with you to-morrow, and you will invite him to meet me."
"Certainly. And who is your friend? I guess—the young author?"
"Leonard Fairfield," cried Violante, who had conquered, or felt ashamed, of her short-lived anger.
"Fairfield!" repeated Lady Lansmere. "I thought, Harley, you said the name was Oran."
"He has assumed the latter name. He is the son of Mark Fairfield, who married an Avenel. Did you recognise no family likeness?—none in those eyes,—mother?" said Harley, sinking his voice into a whisper.