She had sighed at thought of her own exquisite _trousseau_ lying unworn, even to the bridal gown, in her trunks at home. What happy hours she had spent over the costly robes fated never to be worn, she thought, stifling the unbidden sigh that heaved her breast. When she went home she found that several friends had already called, and among the cards was that of Philip Desha. She smiled a little bitterly: “Perhaps he thinks, like Florian, that he should be loyal to me till I give him an honorable discharge. Well, that will be easy enough.” But Desha did not call again for some time. It was Inauguration Week, and some of his Northern friends were in the city. In showing them the proper courtesies he found no time for any one else, so that at the last he met Viola first elsewhere. It was at a reception, one of the first given by the new President. She had unwillingly accompanied her father and aunt, lightening her somber black for the occasion by some bunches of white and purple violets. They had paid their respects to the new Executive and were getting out of the crush when he came to her side, and their eyes met. Viola held out her tiny black-gloved hand. “I am glad to see you, Professor Desha, and sorry I was not at home when you called last week.” It was the graceful _aplomb_ of the woman of the world, mixed with cordiality that went a little deeper. His heart leaped quickly as he pressed her hand, and asked, eagerly: “Then I may take the privilege of coming again?” “Certainly,” she answered, with the gleam of a gracious smile; and then the crowd swept them apart, and a few people who had observed the meeting, with surprise, nudged each other, observing: “The audacious little flirt! Not out of her mourning yet, and she has got the foolish fellow into her toils again! Has he neither sense nor pride?” CHAPTER XXXV. “IT WAS PIQUE, NOT LOVE.” Days passed, and with their flight Viola took up the threads of her home life again, but with a subtle difference. The light-hearted gayety of other days had faded from her brow, and a pensive shadow replaced it. She cared no more for society, declining all invitations on the score of her mourning. She spent many hours alone before the portrait of Rolfe Maxwell, that had been hung in her favorite room. Each day she placed fresh flowers on a stand before it. Judge Van Lew and his sister looked on indulgently. They thought it was remorse that dictated these expressions of feeling; they could not believe that Viola had learned to love her husband of an hour. She would get over this morbid grief presently and make up with Desha. “It is this somber black she wears that saddens her mind. The year will soon be over, and I shall persuade her to lay it aside and be her own bright self again,” said Aunt Edwina, consolingly; and that very evening she said, coaxingly: