CHAPTER IX

LUFFE IS REMEMBERED

Violet Oliver took a quick step forward when she caught sight of Linforth’s tall and well-knit figure coming towards her; and the smile with which she welcomed him was a warm smile of genuine pleasure.  There were people who called Violet Oliver affected—­chiefly ladies.  But Phyllis Casson was not one of them.

“There is no one more natural in the room,” she was in the habit of stoutly declaring when she heard the gossips at work, and we know, on her father’s authority, that Phyllis Casson’s judgments were in most instances to be respected.  Certainly it was not Violet Oliver’s fault that her face in repose took on a wistful and pathetic look, and that her dark quiet eyes, even when her thoughts were absent—­and her thoughts were often absent—­rested pensively upon you with an unconscious flattery.  It appeared that she was pondering deeply who and what you were; whereas she was probably debating whether she should or should not powder her nose before she went in to supper.  Nor was she to blame because at the approach of a friend that sweet and thoughtful face would twinkle suddenly into mischief and amusement.  “She is as God made her,” Phyllis Casson protested, “and He made her beautiful.”

It will be recognised, therefore, that there was truth in Sir John’s observation that young men wanted to protect her.  But the bald statement is not sufficient.  Whether that quick transition from pensiveness to a dancing gaiety was the cause, or whether it only helped her beauty, this is certain.  Young men went down before her like ninepins in a bowling alley.  There was something singularly virginal about her.  She had, too, quite naturally, an affectionate manner which it was difficult to resist; and above all she made no effort ever.  What she said and what she did seemed always purely spontaneous.  For the rest, she was a little over the general height of women, and even looked a little taller.  For she was very fragile, and dainty, like an exquisite piece of china.  Her head was small, and, poised as it was upon a slender throat, looked almost overweighted by the wealth of her dark hair.  Her features were finely chiselled from the nose to the oval of her chin, and the red bow of her lips; and, with all her fragility, a delicate colour in her cheeks spoke of health.

“You have come!” she said.

Linforth took her little white-gloved hand in his.

“You knew I should,” he answered.

“Yes, I knew that.  But I didn’t know that I should have to wait,” she replied reproachfully.  “I was here, in this corner, at the moment.”

“I couldn’t catch an earlier train.  I only got your telegram saying you would be at the dance late in the afternoon.”

“I did not know that I should be coming until this morning,” she said.

“Then it was very kind of you to send the telegram at all.”