Time was, but a little while ago, that he had frankly despised and avoided her in his detestation of her heartlessness. But the few unavoidable meetings with her at the studio of Florian Gay had removed the keen edge of his dislike. No one could be in Viola’s company and not yield to the magnetic charm of her presence. After all, she seemed but a simple, unaffected girl, perhaps not realizing the harm she did by her gayety and beauty. So love had come to him against his will, and he chafed bitterly under it, feeling that the light coquette was not worthy the sacrifice of a true man’s heart. He determined to conquer his ill-starred passion as speedily as possible, and never let Viola have the triumph of knowing she had ever touched his heart. While she was ill he did not succeed very well in his desire, because pity and sympathy softened his feelings. Then when she began to convalesce, it made him so glad he could not resist a kind little note and some flowers. It seemed an almost necessary courtesy, and he intended to stop right there, and never see her again if he could avoid it. But Viola sent him a sweet little perfumed note in reply, at the end of which she said: “I am almost well again, and indeed you must not blame yourself for having left me alone on the ice that day, because I sent you, you know, to help poor Minnie Hyer. I pitied her so much, poor thing! tumbling about on the ice till she must have been black and blue with bruises. Then, of course, you never thought of my skating out so far alone--neither did I, indeed--but I’ll tell you why I did it when I see you again.” Much brooding over the last sentence persuaded him that he owed Viola a duty call. Evidently she expected it, and--besides, his curiosity was aroused. What reason had she had for skating out so far indeed? “I will go--just once. Then I must certainly put the little beauty out of my thoughts. One can not play with fire. I must give myself up to my political duties and abjure society,” he decided, grimly. So he set out for his last call, and when ushered into her charming presence, the young statesman of thirty--cool and self-possessed enough ordinarily--trembled so that he could scarcely speak, so keen was his delight at seeing her again. Viola had known well that he would come. She had faith in the potency of those well-chosen words, “when I see you again.” She smiled him a cordial welcome, and it seemed to him that never before had she looked so lovely. Illness had softened down the exuberant vitality of her beauty, stealing a little roundness and bloom from her cheek, and a little of the mischief from her luminous eyes. There was a delicate, appealing languor in her movements, aided by the trailing house-gown whose warm red tints contrasted so well with her fairness. “You will pardon me for half reclining among my cushions. I am not strong yet,” she explained.