"And he is rather handsome. But I like Leonard's face better."
"Better—that is not the word. Leonard's face is as that of one who has gazed so often upon heaven; and Mr Leslie's—there is neither sunlight nor starlight reflected there."
"My dear Violante!" exclaimed Harley, overjoyed; and he pressed her hand.
The blood rushed over the girl's cheek and brow; her hand trembled in his. But Harley's familiar exclamation might have come from a father's lips.
At this moment Helen softly approached them, and looking timidly into her guardian's face, said, "Leonard's mother is with him: he asks me to call and see her. May I?"
"May you! A pretty notion the Signorina must form of your enslaved state of pupilage, when she hears you ask that question. Of course you may."
"Will you take me there?"
Harley looked embarrassed. He thought of the widow's agitation at his name; of that desire to shun him, which Leonard had confessed, and of which he thought he divined the cause. And, so divining, he too shrank from such a meeting.
"Another time, then," said he, after a pause.
Helen looked disappointed, but said no more.