It was no fault on Bernard Murray’s part that all his acquaintances should without exception imagine that he was of Scottish race.  For every one who knew him well—­and they numbered not a few—­dubbed him “a canny Scot.”  He had not started the fiction, even if he had done nothing toward contradicting it.  For what did it matter to any one else that his nationality should be so widely misinterpreted?  He did not care a straw.  Indeed, it is possible that in his secret heart he was rather pleased that the illusion had grown up.  For it might prove awkward to be known as Irish; Ireland, among the set in which he moved, was looked upon as so impossibly retrograde!  So when he was hailed as “a canny Scot” Bernard merely smiled pleasantly and held his peace.

No doubt Violet Rossall thought that smile well worth awakening.  It was so sunny—­lighting up to classical beauty Bernard’s usually grave yet always handsome features.  The rarity of his smile, too, rendered it all the more precious.  His habitual quiet thoughtfulness of expression helped to settle so definitely his supposed origin; yet had his admirers been better learned in physiognomy they could never have guessed so wide of the mark.  The clear, pale skin, the black hair and dark blue eyes so palpably proclaimed him Irish!  Moreover, it was to his native traits that he really owed his wide popularity.  The quiet reserve which usually characterized him hid a fund of brilliant humor, which would occasionally, and often unexpectedly, flash out in some quick retort or witty jest; nor was there ever wanting that indefinable attraction which is the special charm of Erin’s sons and daughters all the world over.

Even Cuthbert Aston was not proof against that charm, although in a sense he and Bernard were rivals.  For it must have been as evident to Violet Rossall as it was to all onlookers that both Murray and Aston sought her company in preference to that of any other maiden of their acquaintance; which of the two was preferred by her was not so evident, since she seemed to favor both alike.

Violet was, indeed, the center of attraction for all the unattached males of her particular set.  For one reason, she was undeniably beautiful.  An oval face, creamy complexion, large, changeful gray eyes, abundant hair of bright chestnut hue, a slim and graceful figure—­these were but the half of her charms; there was beauty in her ever-changing expression, and beauty, above all, in that radiant, winning smile, apart from all loveliness of form or feature.  She was so undeniably clever, too.  She had passed through school and college with flying colors, carrying off one distinction after another; now she held a prominent position as teacher in a secondary school, with the certain prospect of advancement in course of time to spheres of higher responsibility and social position.  Violet, therefore, was well pleased with her lot, and felt, it may be taken for granted, little anxiety about her future.