Marie picked off the coals daintily and walked away. Directly she had gone Violet slipped the bolt on the door and dropped down upon the bed with a long-drawn sigh.
"'My darling! my darling!' Did he say that to me or was I dreaming? Oh, no, he never could have said it. I must have been dreaming, I did nearly faint, and so I must have fancied that he said so. He could not; it is not possible. He has never been anything else but grave and courteous, he would not forget himself in a moment; his is not the kind of nature--no, no, it is absurd!" And she sighed and smiled.
"I cannot think what is coming to me lately. I am all fancies and dreams and nonsensical imaginings. First I fancy I see a villain in my father's oldest friend, then I fancy I see a ghost in the old tower, and now, the maddest thing of all, I fancy I hear a grave, well-bred gentleman like Leicester Dodson address me as 'his darling!' Oh, it is absurd!"
A dinner--partly fresh and partly a _rechauffé_ of the ruined one--was served up, and the captain did his best to raise the spirits of the ladies.
Mrs. Mildmay, whose very ignorance of nautical matters had preserved her from alarm, was very cheerful and praised the yacht and all pertaining to it with liberal amiability, and, as for the storm, why, if Violet did not take cold, which after her warm bath she would not be likely to, it only added a zest to the trip.
Violet smiled with grave amusement, and did not think fit to enlighten her aunt as to the fate of the hot water, and the captain chimed in as usual from his leaning post outside the veranda, where he smoked a cigar of an evening within speaking distance of the ladies inside.
"I called at Coombe Lodge this morning," he said, with a pause which he filled up with his cigar.
Violet, who lay on a couch, had closed her eyes, but the captain saw that she was not asleep.
"And how is Lady Lackland?" asked Mrs. Mildmay.
"Better I found her, I am glad to say, much better. The earl had not come down yet; parliamentary duties kept him in town I suppose. Pity, a great pity. The peasant in his cot, beneath the blue sky and on the heather-covered hill, is to be envied by an earl in London this weather. By the way," he continued, glancing at Violet and speaking in a low tone as if he were anxious not to awake her, "I heard of rather a damaging trait in Leicester's character."