"Why?" asked Harley, with dry and curt indignation.
"His visits seem to please my dear father. Certainly, I like him."
"Hum. He professes to like you, I suppose?"
Violante laughed, unsuspiciously. She had half a mind to reply, "Is that so strange?" But her respect for Harley stopped her. The words would have seemed to her pert.
"I am told he is clever," resumed Harley.
"O, certainly."
"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.