The hour was dark for Piers Lamont--dark indeed. He was a hardened man, and a strong-willed one, but now he needed all his hardness, all his strength. He had loved this girl passionately and almost at first sight, secretly and at a distance for some time before accident had brought about their engagement, now a matter of three months' duration. And she had returned his love in full, or had seemed to, until this disastrous afternoon. And now his sense of justice was cruelly outraged, and that he felt as if he could never forgive. Moreover, his was one of those natures to which an occurrence of this kind was like chipping a piece out of a perfect and valuable vase or statue. The piece may be restored, but, however skilfully such be done, the rift remains, the object is no longer perfect. It is probable that at that moment he felt more bitterly towards Violet than she did towards him, which is saying a great deal. He had been rudely thrown out of his fool's paradise, and with grim resolution he must accept the position and live down the loss. But the flower-like face, and the deep blue eyes which had brimmed up at him with love, and the soft, wavy brown hair which had pillowed against his breast in restful trust--could he ever tear the recollection from his mind? Pest take those jangling Christmas bells though, cleaving the night with their mockery of peace and good-will! ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Here, Violet. What the dickens is the meaning of this?" said her father, an hour or two later, as he met her going upstairs to dress for dinner. "Here's Lamont cleared at a moment's notice, without the civility even to say good-bye. Leaves this,"--holding out an open letter--"saying he's been called away on urgent business--a qualified lie you know, because no one does business on Christmas Day, and it's nearly that now--and won't be able to return; may have to go abroad immediately; and all the stock balderdash men write under the circumstances; though how they imagine anybody is going to be such an idiot as to believe them, I can't make out. Now, _you_ are at the back of all this. Had a row?" "Oh, I don't care to talk about it," she said, with a movement as though to pass on. "But you must care to talk about it, my dear girl; at any rate for my satisfaction. You had to consult me, didn't you, in order to bring about this engagement? and now if you've thrown the man over--and it looks deucedly as if you had--I've a right to know why. Here--come in here." Squire Courtland was by no means of the type usually described as "one of the old school," except in so far that he was very much master in his own house. For the rest, he prided himself on being exceedingly up-to-date--and his estimate of woman was almost savage in its cynicism. Between himself and Violet there was an utter lack of sympathy; resulting, now that she was grown up, in an occasional and very unpleasant passage of arms.