She knows him from his picture and comes forward. He guesses then who it is, but certainly Laura has not done her half justice.

"Mrs. Floyd Grandon!" bowing with infinite grace.

She smiles at the odd sound of the name she so seldom hears.

"Yes."

He takes the soft, warm hand in his and is tempted to press it to his lips, but wisely refrains.

His mother has seen this little tableau from the window and comes out. Even now, if Violet were Eugene's wife, she could forgive her, quite forgetting that it is not so much her fault or her election.

The delightful harmony comes to a sudden end. That very evening another spirit reigns, a something intangible that makes Violet shrink into silence, and Floyd uneasy. Even Gertrude is less social. Marcia has a curious faculty of making people uncomfortable, of saying wrong things, of being obtrusive. She quite takes possession of the professor, and he hardly knows how to understand her small vanities and delusions, and is glad when the dainty French clock tolls nine, as that is their hour for working. Cecil has been remaining up, much against her grandmamma's wishes, who would have an argument every evening on the subject if she could. So Violet takes the child by the hand and wishes them good night, the gentlemen go to their study, Marcia flits away, and Eugene is left with his mother.

"Upon my word," he says, "I had no idea the St. Vincent was such good form. Floyd has the lucky card everywhere. Is it really true the patent is a success and that there are fortunes in it?"

"Eugene," his mother begins, severely, "it would have been much better for you to have stayed at home instead of wasting time and money as you have done this summer! The lucky card, as you call it, is only taking advantage of circumstances, and if you are going to let Floyd rule everything——"

"Well, what can I help? I had no money to bolster up affairs! Wilmarth was awfully blue. I didn't suppose anything could be made of the business, it was in such a muddle. And it couldn't now, mother, if Floyd had not sunk thousands; I don't see how he expects to get it back if we have anything."

"You threw away your chance!" She must say this, much as she loves him.

"But how could I know that she was pretty and lady-like, and would not mortify a man with her blunders? You do not suppose Floyd is really in love with her?"

"He had the wisdom to marry her," she responds, tartly, loath even now to hear her praised. "It gives him as much interest in the business as—well, more than you take."

"I should like to take his money and let him manage it all, since he has turned into such a splendid hand."

"And what would you do?"

"Why, live on my money." And the young man laughs lightly.

His mother feels at that instant as if her whole life was wasted, her affection despoiled. Eugene is careless, heartless, and yet she cannot in a moment change the habit of her motherhood and unlove him. She feels that he cares very little for their welfare, that for everything she must depend upon her eldest son, and the dependence is bitter. It should not be so, and yet she has been curiously jealous of Floyd since the day Aunt Marcia took him under her wing. He has so much, the rest will have such a trifle in comparison! Yet she feels sure it would slip through Eugene's fingers in no time and leave him a poor man again. But our inclination does not always follow our judgment.



CHAPTER XIII.

For two enemies the world is too small, for two friends a needle's eye is large enough.—BULWER.

The brothers spend nearly all of the next morning in the factory. Floyd has left his substitute with the professor, and sent Cecil to ride, so that she shall not distract Violet's attention. He tries to explain to Eugene all that he has done, the money he has advanced, and the future that seems possible. "It will be a long pull," he says, "but when you get through, the result will be a handsome business. Three years ought to do it."

"Three years," Eugene repeats, with a sigh.

For a moment Floyd is provoked. Does Eugene never expect to put his shoulder to the wheel, to take any real care? Must he fight the matter through for them all? But then, there is Violet.

"I shall expect you to take some part of the business, Eugene, and keep to it. Wilmarth is admirable in his department. He is getting out new patterns, and now that he is really convinced of success he will no doubt throw all his energies into it. Will you keep the books and look after the correspondence? I have so much work of my own to do, and we must economize all we can."

"Well," indolently, "don't expect too much of me."

"How would you like to travel, then?" asks Floyd. "Father, I find, did a good deal himself."

"The travelling would be jolly, but I may as well be honest. I've no knack of selling."

"Then begin at the books," returns the elder, decisively. "You ought to be able to do a man's work somewhere."

"When I made such a blunder about the fortune, eh?" he says, with a half-smile. "Were you really caught, Floyd?"

Floyd Grandon is sorely tempted to knock down this handsome, insolent fellow, even if he is a brother. Oh, if he never had offered Violet to him!

"What I wrote first," he says, "was at her father's desire. Then she did for me a favor of such magnitude that my whole life will not be long enough to repay, but honor led me to be fair to you, or I never should have written a second time. Remember that she is my chosen wife, and forget all the rest."

There is something in the tone that awes the young man, though long afterward he recalls the fact that Floyd did not say he loved her. But he is sobered a little and promises to make himself useful. Floyd has no faith in him or his word. What a heavy burthen it all is!

Laura comes up again, and is all excitement. They are staying at a hotel and Madame Lepelletier is with them, but she is going into her house in a few days, and the Delancys hardly know whether to board or to have a home of their own. There are her beautiful wedding gifts, and there is the pleasure of giving dinners and teas! She discusses it with her mother and Marcia. Eugene, whose advice is not asked, says, "Have a house of your own by all means. Nothing is so independent as a king in his castle."

Violet does not grow any nearer to her new relatives, excepting Gertrude, who has a latent, flabby sense of justice that rouses her now and then when the talk runs too high. There seems to be a grievance all around. If Floyd married her for her fortune, then it is a most shamefully mercenary piece of business; if he married her for a mistress to his home, madame would have been so much more admirable every way, especially now that Floyd is likely to become an attractive and notable member of society.

"Everybody wants to see him," declares Laura, much aggrieved. "Mr. Latimer was talking yesterday. I think they will give him a dinner. And this house ought to be a sort of headquarters,—made really celebrated, you know. I like a good supper and a German, but it is the fashion to be literary. Everybody travels and writes a book, and just now all these queer old things have come around. I don't care a penny how long the world has stood or what people did two thousand years ago; my good time is now, but we must keep in the stream. I count myself a very fortunate girl. I can have all that is best in fashion through Mrs. Vandervoort, and all that is intellectual through Mrs. Latimer, so you see I come in for both. Then if Floyd had married Madame Lepelletier, there would have been another set here. But that little dowdy, who doesn't even know how to dress decently! Common respect ought to teach her about mourning!"

"Her trousseau ought to be right; it was made by Madame Vauban," interposes Gertrude.

"Madame Vauban! Never!" ejaculates Laura, in quite a dramatic tone.

"But I tell you it was! And Floyd had all the ordering, I dare say. He isn't fond of mourning."

"And the paying, too," sneers Laura.

"Well, she has the cottage, and if Floyd is going to make such a fortune for her, he could pay himself back, granting he did spend his money, which I very much doubt."

"The fortune is yet to be made," retorts Laura, with a superior air. "There may never be any. We may not ever get our own."

"Then," says Gertrude, poising her weapon steadily, "he bought your wedding clothes as well."

"He is my brother. I should look well asking Arthur to pay such bills."

"Do let them alone," exclaims Gertrude, angrily. "You married to please yourself, and so did he."

"If he did. I only hope there may be enough in it to keep him pleased. The marriage is utterly incongruous every way."

Gertrude relapses into silence and her book. Why can they not be peaceable and let each other alone? It was so pleasant before they all came home.

Marcia soon nurses up a grievance. Why is a mere child like Violet to be allowed to spend hours with this wonderful professor, pretending to translate or copy, while she, who has actually translated poems for publication, is kept outside of the charmed circle? How delightful it would be to say, "My dear, I am so busy translating with Prof. Freilgrath for his new book that I have not a moment for calls." She does not cordially like the professor. He has very little appreciation of art, her art, and when one evening she took great pains to explain an ambitious scheme, he said, "O Miss Marcia, such a thing would be quite impossible! You would want years of thorough training before you could attempt it. I should advise something less arduous and better suited to a young lady's desultory pursuits. You have no idea of intense study."

"Floyd," she says, one morning, "why cannot I help with copying or translating? I should be glad to do something."

"Oh," he answers, carelessly, "Violet is able to do all, and satisfies the professor perfectly."

The professor has come to feel the flurry of unrest in the air. These ladies of fashion cannot understand he is here now to work, not to be entertained.

"Mrs. Grandon," he says, one afternoon, as Violet folds the notes she has been making and puts them in their place,—she is so orderly and exact it is a pleasure to watch her,—"Mrs. Grandon, I have been thinking of a plan, and your husband allows me to consult you. I should like to take your cottage for the autumn. It is so charmingly situated, so quiet, and your old housekeeper is a treasure. The ground floor would be sufficient, and nothing would need be disturbed. Some time I might ask up a friend or two, and you could come over; the exercise would be beneficial. You grow quite too pale with so much work."

"Why, yes," replies Violet, with a rift of pleasure. She would like having him there, and it would be pleasant for Denise to prepare meals and keep house regularly. And the change for her, the absolute getting away from this unfriendly atmosphere. "You may have it, certainly."

"Thank you. Can you go over and make arrangements? We both need a little exercise, and we have been beautifully industrious. I do not know what I should do without your swift fingers. Will I order the carriage?"

As Violet is dressing herself, an uncomfortable wonder enters her mind. She hears a good deal of talk about propriety, and she does not know whether she ought to do this alone. Even Cecil is out with Jane. She must ask Denise, but alas, she cannot get at her now. Gertrude is kind to her, and she might—

Violet runs down stairs and relates her perplexity.

"Of course you can," says Gertrude. "Married women go anywhere."

"But if you only would!" beseechingly. "And you have never seen the cottage. Oh, please do!" And she kneels down, taking the nerveless hands in hers.

Gertrude considers. She hates to be disturbed, but her book is unusually stupid, and Violet's eager, winsome face is irresistible. How can they say she is not pretty? And if there is the slightest question they will find no end of fault. She groans.

"I know it is asking a good deal, but it would make me so happy, so comfortable."

"And you are such a dear little thing!"

"Do you really think so? Oh, if you could care about me," and the entreaty in the voice touches the heart of the elder as nothing has in a long while.

"I will go," returns Gertrude, with unwonted decision. "I will be quick about changing my dress. There is the carriage."

Gertrude is not much improved by her mourning. She looks less deathly and washed out in the soft white gowns, but there is a languid grace about her that, after all, moves the professor's sympathy. "It is a better face than the other one," he thinks; "not so silly and self-sufficient." He is ever entertaining, unless deeply preoccupied, and now he addresses most of his conversation to her, and is friendly solicitous about her comfort and her health. "There are such delightful baths in Germany. Is there nothing like them in America?" he asks.

"They are really so," Gertrude answers. "We were in Germany once, when my health first began to break."

"In Germany?" With that he brightens up and questions her, and Violet is pleased that she answers with interest. She so pities poor Gertrude, with her broken-off love story, and she helps the conversation with now and then a trenchant bit of her own that does not lead it away. She is so generous in this respect. She has not come to the time of life when one wishes to amass, or is it that she has not seen anything she covets?

The professor is satisfied with every room. If they can put in a bed he will sleep here, and take this for his workroom. The parlor is still left for the entertainment of guests. Here is a porch and a rather steep flight of steps, where he can run up and down when he wants a whiff of the cool river breeze or a stroll along the shore. Violet explains to Denise that Prof. Freilgrath will want some meals. "You know all about those odd foreign soups and dishes," she says, with her pretty air. "And I shall come over every day to write or to read. You can't think what a business woman I have become."

Denise raises her eyebrows a little. "And Mr. Grandon?" she asks.

"Oh, I expect he will never want to come back home! Denise, wouldn't it be lovely if we lived here, with Cecil? I wish he might want to," in her incoherent eagerness. "It will be another home to us, you see, where I shall feel quite free. Why, I could even come in the kitchen and cook a dish!"

With that she laughs delightedly, her sweet young face in a glow.

The visitors go up-stairs to see the prospect, which is lovely from the upper windows. "This is—this was papa's room," correcting herself. She does not think of him any more as in the grave, but in that other wonderful country with the one he loves so dearly.

"Denise," she says, one day, shocking the old woman, "why should I wear black clothes when papa is so happy? It is almost as if he had gone to Europe to meet mamma. Sometimes I long to have him back, then it seems as if I envied her, when she only had him three years, so long ago. Why should any one be miserable if I went to them both?"

"You talk wildly, child," answers Denise, quite at loss for an argument.

But now, when they come down, Denise has a cup of tea, some delicious bread and butter, cream cheese that she can make to perfection, and a dish of peaches. Violet is as surprised as they, and rejoices to play hostess. They are in the midst of this impromptu picnic when Grandon looks in the doorway, and laughs with the light heart of a boy.

"I was coming to talk with Denise," he says.

"I have made my bargain," the professor answers, in a tone of elation. "It is delightful. I shall be so charmed that I shall lose the zest of the traveller and become a hermit. I shall invite my friends to royal feasts."

Violet has poured a cup of tea and motions to Floyd, who comes to sit beside her. She is so alluring in her youth and freshness that he sometimes wishes there was no marriage tie between them, and they could begin over again.

"Whatever happened to you, Gertrude?" he asks. "I am amazed that tea-drinking has such a tempting power."

"The fraulein is to come often," says Freilgrath, lapsing into his native idiom. "It has done her good already; her eyes have brightened. She stays within doors too much."

Gertrude's wan face flushes delicately.

When they reach home the dinner-bell rings, and they all feel like truants who have been out feasting on forbidden fruit.

The next day the professor moves, but he promises to come down every evening. Marcia is intensely surprised, and Mrs. Grandon rather displeased. It is some plot of Violet's she is quite sure, especially as Floyd takes his wife over nearly every day. Curiously enough Gertrude rouses herself to accompany them frequently. They shall not find unnecessary fault with Violet. Denise enjoys it all wonderfully, and when the professor sits out on the kitchen porch and smokes, her cup of happiness is full.

Then he goes to the city for several days. There is the club reception to the noted traveller, and though Laura would enjoy a German much more, she does not care to miss this. Madame Lepelletier is invited also, but she is arranging her house and getting settled, and this evening has a convenient headache. There are several reasons why she does not care to go, although she is planning to make herself one of the stars for the coming winter.

She has had occasion to write two or three business notes to Floyd Grandon since she said farewell to him, and they have been models in their way. In his first reply, almost at the end, he had said, "Laura, I suppose, has informed you of my marriage. It was rather an unexpected step, and would not have occurred so suddenly but for Mr. St. Vincent's fatal illness."

In her next note she spoke of it in the same grave manner, hoping he would find it for his happiness, and since then no reference has been made to it. From Laura she has heard all the family dissatisfactions and numberless descriptions of Violet. From Eugene she has learned that Miss Violet was offered to him, and there is no doubt in her mind but that she was forced upon Floyd. She cannot forgive him for his reticence those last few days, but her patience is infinite. The wheel of fate revolves, happily; it can never remain at one event, but must go on to the next. The Ascotts' house is a perfect godsend to her, and her intimacy with Mrs. Latimer a wise dispensation. They are all charmed with her; it could not be otherwise, since she is a perfect product of society. She hires her servants and arranges her house, which is certainly a model of taste and beauty, but she wishes to give it her own individuality.

Mrs. Grandon has written to invite her up to the park, and Laura has begged her to accompany her and see the idiotic thing Floyd has made his wife. She is gratified to know they had all thought of her and feel disappointed, but she means they shall all come to her first, and this is why she will not meet Floyd Grandon at his friend's reception. There is another cause of offence in the fact that through a two months' acquaintance he should never have mentioned his own aims and plans and achievements. If she could only have guessed this! She is mortified at her own lack of discernment.

Laura is in the next morning. Madame has chosen a gown that throws a pallid shade over her complexion, and she has just the right degree of languor.

"Oh," she declares, "you have come to make me wretched, I see it in your blooming, triumphant face! You had a positively grand evening with all your savants and people of culture. Is your German a real lion in society, or only in his native wilds?"

"Well, I think he is a real lion," with a fashionable amount of hesitation. "You positively do look ill, you darling, and I was not at all sure about the headache last night."

"Did you suppose—why, I could have sent an excuse if I had not wanted to go," and madame opens her eyes with a tint of amaze. "Everybody else was there, of course. Did your brother bring his wife? A reception is not a party."

"He had better taste than that, my dear. He would not even bring Marcia, though she was dying to come. It was for the very creme, you know. I'm not frantically in love with such things, only the name of having gone. Do you know that Floyd is rather of the leonine order? Isn't it abominable that he should have made such a social blunder? The only comfort is, she is or ought to be in deep mourning, and cannot go out anywhere. Why, we gave up all invitations last winter."

"I wonder, Laura dear, if I would dare ask a favor of your mother? It might be a little rest and change, and yet—I am just selfish enough to consider my own pleasure; I should like to invite her down for a fortnight, and give two or three little spreads, don't you young people call them? You see I am not quite up in slang. A dinner and one or two little teas, and an at home evening, something to say to people that I am really here, though there have been several cards left, and I must get well for Thursday. How stupid to indulge in such an inane freak when I have uninterruptedly good health."

"Oh, I am sure mamma would be delighted! Why, it is lovely in you to think of it, instead of taking in some poky old companion."

"I am not very fond of companions. I like visitors best. I dare say I am fickle. And I want some one able to correct any foreign ignorance that may linger about me."

"As if you did not know you were perfect and altogether charming, and that your little foreign airs and graces are the things we all fall down and worship!" laughs Laura. "I could almost find it in my heart to wish I were a dowager."

"You can come without the added dignity of years. I have a motherly interest in you. If you were not married I dare say I should 'ransack the ages' for some one fit and proper, and turn into a match-maker."

"You had better take Marcia in hand; I think of doing it myself. Gert is past hope."

"Marcia is not so bad," says madame, reflectively, "if only she would not set up for a genius. It is the great fault of young American women. Abroad everything is done, even studying music, under an assumed name, but one does not go on the stage."

"Marcia is a fool," says Laura, with most unsisterly decision.

"Well, about your mother. You think I may write. I trespassed upon your hospitality so long——"

"Oh, whatever should I have done without you! And there is another funny thing," says Laura irrelevantly. "Mrs. Floyd has taken up literature. She copies and translates and does no end of work for the professor; and he has hired her cottage, where they all do some Bohemianish housekeeping, I believe."

Madame raises her delicate eyebrows a trifle. "She must be well trained, then," she makes answer. "She may do admirably for your brother, after all."

"Hem!" retorts Laura, "what does a little writing amount to? Only it is queer."

Madame never indulges in any strictures on the new wife, rather she treats the matter as an untoward accident to be made the best of; she is not so short-sighted as to show the slightest malice.

Then she takes Laura back to the reception and is interested in hearing who was there and what was done, who was a bore, who is worth inviting, and so on, until Laura finds she has stayed unconscionably. After her visitor is gone she writes the daintiest of epistles, quite as a loving daughter might. She means to sap all the outer fortifications; she even considers if it will not be wise to invite Marcia some time.

To say that Mrs. Grandon is delighted is a weak word. Nothing has ever so taken her by storm since Laura's engagement. She carries the letter to Floyd. Had madame foreseen this?

"Of course you will go." His eyes are on the letter, where every stroke of the pen, every turn of the sentence, are so delicate. The faint perfume, which is of no decided scent, touches him, too; he has never known any one quite so perfect in all the accessories, quite so harmonious.

"How can I?" she says, fretfully. "There is no one to look after the house."

Floyd laughs at that.

"I should suppose the servants might be trusted, and surely Marcia knows enough to order a meal. You do need a holiday. Come, just think you can go. I shall be in the city a good deal the next month, and as Freilgrath has a domicile of his own—yes, you must answer this immediately."

She has a few other flimsy objections, but Floyd demolishes everything, and almost threatens to write for her. There is no reason why they should not all be good friends, even if he has married another person; and he has a real desire to see Madame Lepelletier. He wants to smooth out some little roughnesses that rather annoy him when he thinks of them.

So Mrs. Grandon writes that Floyd will bring her down at the required date. Then madame has not miscalculated.

She goes to a reception at the Vandervoorts', to a charming tea at the Latimers'. People are talking about Freilgrath and Mr. Grandon, and some new discoveries, as well as the general improvement in science and literature. There is an "air" about the "house Latimer" very charming, very refined, and madame fits into it like the frontispiece to a book, without which it would not be quite perfect. "What an extremely fascinating woman!" is the general comment.

Mrs. Grandon has been flurried and worried up to the last moment. She is afraid her gowns are passe, that she looks old for her years, and that her prestige as Mrs. James Grandon is over forever. But the instant she steps into the hall at madame's the nervousness falls away like an uncomfortable wrap. The air is warm and fragrant, but not close, the aspect of everything is lovely, cosey, restful. A figure in soft array comes floating down the stairs.

"I am delighted," madame says, in the most seductive tone of welcome. Then she holds out her hand to Floyd; looks at the waiter, and orders the trunk to be taken up stairs. "I was afraid you would repent at the last moment, or that something untoward might happen," she continues. "Will you sit down a moment," to Floyd, "and excuse us, just for the briefest space?"

She waves him to the nearest of the suite of rooms with her slender hand, and escorts Mrs. Grandon up to her chamber adjoining her own, and begins to take off her wraps as a daughter might, as Mrs. Grandon's daughters never have done. The attention is so delicate and graceful.

Floyd meanwhile marches around the room in an idle man fashion. It is in itself a fascination, perhaps not altogether of her choosing, but the fact of her taking it at all presupposes her being in some degree pleased. The art was all there, doubtless, but madame has left her impress as well in the little added touches, the vase where no one expected it, the flowers that suggested themselves, played a kind of hide-and-seek game with you through their fragrance, the picture at a seductive angle of light, the social grouping of the chairs, the tables with their open portfolios. He half wishes some one could do this for the great house up at the park, give it the air of grace and interest and human life.

Madame Lepelletier comes down in the midst of these musings, alone. They might have parted yesterday, the best and most commonplace friends, for anything in her face. He has an uneasy feeling, as if an explanation was due, and yet he knows explanations are often blunders.

"It was very kind of you to think of taking mother out of her petty daily round," he says. "Let me thank you!"

"Oh!" she answers, "do not compel me to apologize for a bit of selfish motive at the bottom. And I am glad to see you. You are in the list of those who achieve greatness, I believe," with a most fascinating smile.

"Or have it fall upon them as a shadow from some other source! I am not quite sure of my own prowess. That will be when I attempt something alone."

"I was so sorry not to meet your friend the other evening, though I hope it is only a pleasure deferred. Do you feel at home in your native land? Was it not a little strange after all these years?"

"I could hardly feel strange after the cordial greeting," he says. "It was delightful; I am sorry you missed it. Will you allow me to present my friend, Prof. Freilgrath, to you?"

"If you will be so kind after my apparent incivility. You know I am so generally well that it seems any excuse on the point of health must be a——"

"You shall not use harsh terms," and he smiles. She is the beautiful, brilliant incarnation of health, a picture good to look upon. He cannot but study her, as he has times before. The splendor of her dark eyes falls softly upon him, her breath comes and goes in waves that would sweep over a less abundant vitality, but it is the food on which she thrives, like some wonderful tropical blossom.

"Then I am pardoned," she replies. "Now, when will you bring him? Shall I make a little feast and ask in the neighbors, shall I swell out into a grand dinner, or, let me see—covers for four while your mother is here? You shall choose."

"Then I will choose the covers for four," he replies, to her satisfaction.

"The time also. You know your engagements best. Will you stay and take luncheon with us? I have ordered it immediately, for Mrs. Grandon ought to have some refreshment."

Her tone is gently persuasive. Grandon studies his watch,—he has just an hour on his hands.

"Thank you; I will remain." Then, after a pause, "I am really glad of the opportunity. I have been so much engaged that I fear I have behaved badly to my friends. You know we always think we can apologize to them," and he indulges in a grave little smile. "Circumstances prevented my half-promised trip to Newport."

If she would only make some reference to his marriage, but she sits with her face full of interest, silent and handsome.

"We had to have new help in the factory. I knew so little about it that I was full of fears and anxieties, and all the family inheritance was at stake. But I think now we will be able to pull through without any loss, and if it is a success it will be a profitable one. I have been taking up some claims against the estate, and yours may as well be settled. It is my intention to get everything in proper order to turn over to Eugene as soon as circumstances will allow."

"My claim is so small," and she smiles with charming indifference, "it is quite absurd to distress yourself about it. You are likely to succeed in your new undertaking, Laura tells me. Why, we shall hold you in high esteem as a remarkable genius. Men of letters seldom have a mind for the machinery of business or life."

"My father died at a most unfortunate time for the family, it would seem, and his all was involved in this new experiment. There have been months of bad management, or none at all," with one of the grim smiles that often point a sentence. "My position is one of extreme perplexity, yet I shall endeavor to fulfil my father's hopes and wishes."

"You are very generous. Not every son would place his own aims second."

"I am not doing that," he interrupts, hastily; "I really could not if I would. You must not make me seem heroic, for there is very little of that about me. It is trying to combine the two that makes the severity of the task, but my friend is a host in himself. To him really belongs the credit of our work; still, I have at length discovered that the bent of my mind is toward letters and science, and in another year I hope to do something by myself."

"It is hard to be immersed in family cares at the same time," she answers, with the most fascinating sympathy in her eyes. "Our idea of such men is in the study and the world that they charm with their patient research. I have read of women who wrote poetry and made bread, but certainly both, to be excellent, need an undivided attention. The delicate sense of the poesy and the proper heat of the oven seem naturally to conflict."

He smiles at her conceit, but he has found it sadly true. There is a touch of confident faith in her voice that is delicately encouraging. He has had no sympathy for so long until the professor came, for it would be simply foolish to expect it of his own household, who are not even certain that they can confide in his sense of justice. He has bidden adieu to the old friends and scenes, and is not quite fitted to the new, hence the jarring.

A silvery-toned gong sounds for luncheon. Madame goes to meet her guest and escorts her on the one side, while her son is on the other. It is a charming and deferential attention, and Mrs. Grandon rises in her own estimation, while the dreadful sacrifice her son has made looms dark by contrast.

Afterward, going down the street, Floyd remembers with a twinge of shame that Violet has not once been mentioned. It was his remissness, of course. He could not expect madame to discuss his marriage as one of the ordinary events of life, but he wishes now that he had taken the honorable step. If he only understood the turns and tricks of fashionable life. He has been in wilds and deserts so long, that he has a curious nervous dread of blunders or those inopportune explanations he has occasionally witnessed.



CHAPTER XIV.

To be wise is the first part of happiness.—ANTIGONE.

They are excellently served and complete order reigns at the great house, yet Mrs. Grandon is missed, in ways not altogether complimentary if one put it into words. Marcia delights in playing at mistress. She asks in some of her neighbors to dinner, but Violet, excusing herself, goes over to the cottage. Floyd is not at home to be consulted, and she does not wish to blunder or to annoy him. She wins Marcia's favor to a certain extent, but her favor is the most unreliable gift of the gods. She has no mind of her own, but is continually picking up ready-made characteristics of her neighbors and trying them on as one would a bonnet, and with about the same success. While the rest of her small world is painfully aware of her inconsistency, she prides herself upon a wide range of mental acquirements. She generously allows Violet to try driving Dolly, who is as gentle as a lamb.

Violet draws some delicious breaths, when she feels quite like a bird, but she does not know that it is freedom. She hardly misses Mr. Grandon, who seems to be up at the factory or down to the city nearly all the time. The piano stands open, daring innovation, and she plays for hours, to Cecil's entrancement, and inducts her in the steps of a fascinating little dance. Cecil is growing quite wild and wilful at times, but she is always charming.

They all go up to the cottage one day to a lunch of Denise's preparing. While Gertrude rests, Marcia insists upon visiting the place where Cecil was rescued.

"You dear, brave child!" she cries, kissing Violet with rapture, "I don't wonder Floyd fell in love with you on the spot! If you could only pose just that way to me, and I could paint it! What a picture it would be for exhibition!"

Violet flushes warmly, but by this time she shares the family distrust of Marcia's splendid endeavors.

"Oh," Cecil whispers, clinging tightly to her hand and shuddering with awe, "if I had fallen down over all those jagged rocks! I shall always, always love you dearly; papa said I must."

How like a dream that far-off day appears!

There is a bit of wood fire burning on the hearth when they return, for Violet remembers that Gertrude is always cold. The table is simple and yet exquisite. Marcia is crazed with the china and some silver spoons that date to antiquity or the first silversmiths.

"If I had money," she begins, when her appetite is a little sated,—"if I had money I should have a house of my own, kept just to my fancy, with an old French servant like Denise, only"—glancing around—"it must be severely artistic. It is so hard that women cannot make fortunes!" with a long sigh.

"I should enjoy one made for me quite as well," rejoins Gertrude, who is always annoyed by Marcia's assumptions of or longings for manhood.

"What a lucky girl you are, or will be if Floyd's plans come out right," and Marcia nods to Violet. "Only I should hate all that wretched waiting!"

"How long must I wait?" There is a lurking smile in Violet's brown eyes.

"How long?—don't you know?" accenting the words with surprise. "Why this is quite a mystery. I have heard of heiresses being kept in the dark for evil purposes," and Marcia gives her head an airy toss. "Have you never seen your father's will? Until you are twenty-five—but I shouldn't feel at all obliged to Floyd for tying it up so securely. I dare say he could have persuaded your father differently!"

Violet colors with a curious sense of displeasure. Gertrude gives a warning look, and for fear of that failing in its mission, touches Marcia's foot under the table.

"I suppose he—they both did what they thought best," Violet says, hurt somehow at the signal and a consciousness of some secrecy.

"Oh, of course, of course! Men always do take their own way; they think they are so much wiser than women, selfish beings!" exclaims Marcia, on another tack. Gertrude bestirs herself to make a diversion, but a latent wonder lingers in Violet's mind. She does not really care about any knowledge being kept away from her, and she has known all along that she was something of an heiress. Did not Mr. Grandon admit that when they talked about the trousseau? A sense of mystery comes up about her like a thick, gray mist, and she shivers. She cannot tell why, but the joy of the day is over.

When they reach home there is company for Marcia, two especial guests, that she takes up to her sanctum, and is seen no more until the dinner-bell summons her. Eugene is in an uncomfortable mood and teases Cecil. Violet seems always a little afraid of this handsome young man, who has a way of making inscrutable remarks. Her music is melancholy this evening, and Cecil is difficult to please, so she is glad when bedtime comes and with it a resume of the times of the wonderful Haroun al Raschid. But when Cecil falls asleep an intense feeling of loneliness seizes her. It seems as if she was somewhere in a wide desert waste.

Mr. Grandon is to spend the night in the city. She wonders where he is! There was the reception to the professor, there was a grand dinner for gentlemen only, at the house of some famous person, there has been business. She would like to imagine the scene for her own interest. How strange, she thinks, to sit three or four hours over a dinner, and yet, if the professor talked, she could listen forever. Does Mr. Grandon ever talk in that manner? A fine thrill speeds along her nerves, a sort of pride in him, a secret joy that he is hers.

Oh, it is only nine o'clock! Violet tries to interest herself in a novel, but it is stupid work. There are voices down-stairs and she catches Marcia's inane little laugh. They never ask her down, because she is in deep mourning, and Gertrude has kindly told her that people do not go in society for at least six months when they have lost a near relative. She has been married only two months, and it has seemed as long as any other six months in her whole life.

Then she wonders why the marriages of books are so different from the marriages of real life. There was Linda Radford, one of her schoolmates, who went away last year to be married to an Englishman and live at Montreal. Linda had a fortune, and the gentleman was a distant cousin. They had always been engaged. Linda had written two letters afterward, about her handsome house and elegant clothes. Then little Jeanne Davray had a lover come from France, who married her in the convent chapel and took her away. Once she wrote back to Sister Catharine. There was a bright, wilful girl, a Protestant, placed in the convent, who ran away with a married man and shocked the small community so much that the mention of her name was forbidden. Right here are Laura and Mr. Delancy, who are not story-book lovers, either. Oh, which is true? She hides a blushing longing face on Cecil's pillow, and sighs softly, secretly, for what she has not. Denise would call it a sin, for she thinks every word and act of Mr. Grandon's exactly right. Then, somehow, she must be wrong. Are the books and poems all wrong? She prays to be kept from all sin, not to desire or covet what may not be meant for her. Oh, what a long, long evening!

Floyd Grandon is a guest at Madame Lepelletier's table. There are three rooms, divided by silken portieres, which are now partially swung aside. The lamps in the other rooms are burning low, there is a sweet, faint perfume, a lovely suggestiveness, a background fit for a picture, and this cosey apartment, hung with shimmering silk, and lighted from a cluster of intense, velvety tropical flowers, soften the glare and add curious tints of their own, suggestive of sunlight through a garden. It is not the dining-room proper. Madame has ways quite different from other people, surprises, delicate, delicious, and dares to defy fashion when she chooses, though most people would consider her a scrupulous observer. The four would not be half so effective in the large apartment. There is a handful of fire in the low grate, and the windows are open to temper the air through the silken curtains. Mrs. Grandon is looking her best, a handsome, middle-aged woman. Madame Lepelletier is in an exquisite shade of bluish velvet that brings out every line and tint in a sumptuous manner. The square-cut corsage and elbow sleeves are trimmed with almost priceless ivory-tinted lace; and except the solitaire diamonds in her ears, she wears no jewels. There are two or three yellow rose-buds low down in her shining black hair, and two half hidden in the lace on her bosom. The skirt of her dress is long and plain, and makes crested billows about her as she sits there.

The dinner is over, and it was perfect; the dessert has been taken out, the wine, fruit, and nuts remain; the waiter is dismissed, the chairs are pushed back just to a degree of informality and comfort, and they have reached that crowning delight, an after-dinner chat.

Madame has been posting herself on antiquities and discoveries. There seems nothing particularly new about her knowledge; she is at home in it, and in no haste to air it; she keeps pace with them in a leisurely way, as if not straying out of her usual course. Floyd Grandon feels conscience-smitten that he once believed her wholly immersed in wedding-clothes and fashions. What a remarkable, many-sided woman she is! a perfect queen of all society, and an admirable one at that. Everything she says is fresh and crisp, and her little jest well told and well chosen. The professor beams and smiles, though he is no great lady's man. She might be a bon camarade, so free is she from the airy little nothings of society that puzzle scholarly men. There is something charming, too, in the way Mrs. Grandon is made one of the circle,—a part of them, not merely an outside propriety. Every moment she grudges that fascinating woman for her son; she is almost jealous when the professor listens with such rapt deference and admiration. That Floyd's own unwisdom should have placed the bar between himself and this magnificent woman is almost more than she can endure.

He has dropped in one morning and accompanied them to a matinee. A foreign friend has sent madame tickets, and he had an hour or two on his hands while waiting for proofs. In all these interviews Violet's name has not been mentioned. His marriage is a matter of course, he is not sailing under any false colors, he has made no protestations of friendship, still he has an uneasy feeling. If Violet only could go into society, yet he knows intuitively the two women never could be friends, though he has no great faith in the friendship of women for women; it is seldom the sort of a stand-up affair for all time that pins a man's faith to another. He wonders, too, what Violet is doing. How she would enjoy these lovely rooms! She could not sit at the head of a table a queen, but then she is young yet. Madame was not perfection at seventeen, and he strongly suspects that he was a prig. Could he take Violet to a matinee? If there was someone he dared ask.

It is midnight when the two men walk home to their hotel. Grandon feels as if he has taken too much wine, though he is always extremely moderate.

"She is perfection!" declares the professor, enthusiastically. "You have many charming women, but I have seen none as superb as she. There is an atmosphere of courts about her, and so well informed, so delicate with her knowledge, not thrusting it at you with a shout. You have given me the greatest of pleasure. If I were not an old tramp, with a knapsack on my shoulder, I do not know what would happen! I might be the fly in the flame!"

Floyd laughs amusedly. There is about as much danger of Freilgrath falling in love with her as there is of himself. Would he have, he wonders, if other events had not crowded in and almost taken the right of choice from him? It would not have been a bad match if Cecil had loved her, and she does love Violet. His heart gives a great throb as he thinks of the two in each other's arms, sleeping sweetly. All the passion of his soul is still centred in Cecil.

Yet he feels a trifle curious about himself. Is he stock or stone? He has known of strong men being swept from their moorings when duty, honor, and all that was most sacred held them elsewhere; nay, he has even seen them throw away the world and consider it well lost for a woman's love. If he should never see madame again he would not grieve deeply, but being here he will see her often, and there is no danger.

By some curious cross-light of mental retrospect he also knows that if Violet were the beloved wife of any other man—the large-hearted professor, for instance—he could see her daily without one covetous pang. He likes her very, very much, she is dear to him, but he is not in love, and he rather exults in being so cool-headed. Is it anything but a wild dream, soon burned out to ashes?

Madame Lepelletier, in the solitude of her room, studies her superb figure, with its rich and affluent lines. No mere beauty of pink cheeks, dimples, of seventeen, can compare with it, and she understands the art of keeping it fresh and perfect for some years to come at least. Floyd Grandon is just beginning a career that will delight and satisfy him beyond anything he dreams of to-night. He is not in love with his wife; he did not want her fortune, there were others already made at hand. A foolish pity, the remnant of youth, moved him, and some day he will look back in amazement at his folly. But all the same he has put a slight upon her preference, shown to him, but not in any wise confessed. She has no silly sentiment, neither would she cloud her position for a prince of the blood royal, or what is saying more, for the man she could love, but society has devious turns and varying latitudes. One need not run squarely against the small fences it puts up, to gain satisfaction.

Prof. Freilgrath comes up home with his friend the next morning. There are some dates to verify, some designs to decide upon, but he will not remain to luncheon. Grandon steps out to greet Denise, when the opposite door opens, and two quaint laughing figures appear. Violet is wrapped in her shepherd's plaid, the corner twisted into a bewitching hood and surmounted by a cluster of black ribbon bows. She holds Cecil by the hand, who looks a veritable Red Ridinghood, tempting enough to ensnare any wolf. Both are bright and vivid, and have a fresh, blown-about look that walking in the wind invariably imparts. Cecil springs into his arms, and still holding her he bends to kiss Violet.

"You have not walked up?" he asks, in surprise.

"It was not very far, and it is such a lovely, glowing morning," Violet says, with a touch of deprecation.

"We ran," cries Cecil, with her exuberant spirits in her tone. "We ran races, and I beat! And we played a wolf was coming. Mamma has seen real wolves in Canada. But if we had a pony carriage,—because Aunt Marcia is stingy sometimes——"

"O Cecil!" interposes Violet, in distress.

"Would you like one, Violet? You could soon learn to drive," and he glances into her deep, dewy eyes, her face that is a glow of delight.

"Marcia has been very kind, and has let me drive Dolly a little. I should not be afraid, and it would be so delightful."

"You quite deserve it, I have to leave you so much to entertain yourselves. Now rest a little and I will walk back with you."

The professor comes out. "They will stay for lunch, good Denise," he announces, quite peremptorily. "Good morning, Mrs. Grandon; good morning, little one! We have been sadly dissipated fellows, going around on what you call 'larks,' and you ought to scold us both."

"I don't know why!" she rejoins, with a bright smile. She is suddenly very happy; it tingles along every nerve.

"What a pretty—hood, do you call it?" says Grandon, rather awkwardly, trying to unfasten Violet's wrap.

"And the little one is a picture!" adds the professor, glancing from one to the other.

"Mamma made mine," cries Cecil. "She had one when she was a little girl, and her papa brought it from Paris."

Grandon laughs. They go to look at the designs, and Violet makes business-like little comments that surprise them both. She is so eager to have the book done, to see it in proper shape with her own eyes. "I shall really feel famous," she declares, with a pretty air of consequence, archly assumed.

The lunch is delightful, and Violet confesses that yesterday they all entered with felonious intent, and did eat and drink, and surreptitiously waste and destroy.

"You didn't get Gertrude here?" asks Floyd. "What magic did you use?"

"And Denise made such a lovely fire for her," says Cecil. "She wasn't a bit cold. I wish we could live here, it is so little and nice."

That seems to amuse the professor greatly. He feeds Cecil grapes, and plans how it shall be. Grandon, too, seems in unusual spirits; and presently they have an enchanting walk home. The October day is gorgeous, and they find some chestnuts. The pony carriage is talked over again, and Floyd promises to look it up immediately.

That evening at dinner Marcia says, suddenly, "Did you and the professor dine with madame last night? Mother's letter came this morning, in which she spoke of expecting you. Of course madame looked like a queen in

"'The folds of her wine-dark velvet dress.'"

"It was—blue or green or something, only not wine-color," says Floyd.

"Was any one else there?"

"No, it was just for the professor."

"She might have had the goodness to remember there were more in the family. Mrs. Grandon and myself," declares Eugene, almost in a tone of vexation.

"What was the opera? I think you are getting very——"

"'Martha,'" he interrupts, quickly. "An acquaintance of madame's sang as Plunkett, and did extremely well; a young Italian who only a year or two ago lost his fortune."

"Brignoli used to be divine as Lionel," says Marcia. "I don't believe I should like another person in that role. Of course madame is making a great sensation in New York. What a wonderfully handsome woman she is, and—do you remember, Gertrude, whether any one ever made any great fuss about her in her youth?"

Gertrude colors at this thrust of ancient memory.

"She is the handsomest woman I ever saw," begins Eugene, and his glance falls upon Violet. "Of course she was handsome always, and you need not hint enviously of a lost youth, Marcia. She looks younger than any of you girls to-day. There wasn't one at Newport who could hold a candle to her. The men were mowed down 'n swaths. Not one could stand before her."

"Then I say she is a coquette," is Marcia's decisive reply. "I dare say there will be no end of dinners and Germans and lovers. It's fearfully mean in Laura not to take a house for the winter and invite a body down. It is horrid dull here! Floyd, do you mean to stay up all winter?"

"Why not? I have not spent a winter here since I was a boy, in the old farm-house with Aunt Marcia."

"What an awful place it was!" Marcia is quite forgetting her role of severe high art. "I believe she always chose the coldest days in winter and the warmest days in summer to invite us. I don't see how you endured it!"

"I not only endured it," says Floyd, meditatively, "but I liked it."

"Well, one might like it with a fortune in the background," Eugene rejoins, with covert insolence.

The dessert is being brought in, which causes a lull in the family strictures. Floyd frowns and is silent. When they rise, Cecil runs to the drawing-room, and the two follow her.

"Play a little," says her husband; and Violet sits down, thinking of the handsome woman she has never yet seen, but who seems to have bewitched all the family.

Floyd is down twice again before the day on which he escorts his mother home. On one of these occasions he buys the pony. Violet and Cecil are both filled with delight, and Floyd gives his wife a little driving practice. He is so good to her, she thinks, but she sometimes wishes he would talk to her about madame.

They are quite enthusiastic at Mrs. Grandon's return, but her distance and elegance chill Violet to the very soul. She has no part in the general cordiality, and Floyd finds himself helpless to mend matters. For the first time since he has come home he regrets that this great house is his portion, and that half, at least, had not gone to the rest. He has a desperate desire to take Violet and live in the cottage, as Cecil has proposed.



CHAPTER XV.

"The branches cross above our eyes, The skies are in a net."

The plans have been made without taking Violet into the slightest account, or Floyd, as master of the house. Laura and madame are to come up for a week, and there must be a dinner and an evening party. Laura was compelled to have such a quiet wedding, and it was really shameful to make so much use of madame and offer her so little in return.

"I really don't know what to do about the rooms," says Mrs. Grandon. "It was absurd in Floyd to take that elegant spare chamber when he had two rooms of his own and all the tower; and if one should say a word, my lady would be in high dudgeon, no doubt."

"Mother," begins Gertrude in a calm tone,—and it seems as if Gertrude had lost her sickly whine in this bracing autumn weather,—"you do Violet great injustice. She will give up the room with pleasure the moment she is asked."

"Oh, I dare say!" with a touch of scorn, meant to wither both speaker and person spoken of, "if I were to go down on my knees, which I never have done yet."

"You forget the house is Floyd's."

"No, I do not; I am not allowed to," with stately emphasis. "When Floyd was down to the city he was the tenderest of sons to me. She is a sly, treacherous little thing; you can see it in her face. I never would trust a person with red hair, and she sets him up continually. He is so different when he is away from her; Laura remarked it. How he ever could have married her!"

"It would be the simplest act of courtesy to speak about the room; just mention it to Floyd."

Mrs. Grandon draws a long, despairing sigh, as if she had been put upon to the uttermost.

"We must invite the Brades and the Van Bergens to the dinner, though I suppose Laura will choose the guests and divide them to her liking; only at the dinner we shall have no dancing. Laura is to come up to-morrow."

"If you would like me to speak about the room——" says Gertrude.

"I believe I am still capable of attending to my own affairs," is the lofty rejoinder.

Marcia, with her head full of coming events, waylays Floyd on his return that morning.

"I want some money," she says, with a kind of infantile gayety. "I have bills and bills; their name is legion."

"How much?" he asks, briefly.

"I think—you may as well give me a thousand dollars," in a rather slow, considering tone.

He looks at her in surprise.

"Well," and she tosses her head, setting the short curls in a flutter, "is a thousand dollars so large a sum?"

"You had better think before spending it," he answers, gravely. "You will then have four thousand left."

"It is my own money."

"I know it is. But, Marcia, you all act as if there was to be no end to it. If you should get all your part, the ten thousand, it would be only a small sum and easily spent. What do you want to do with so much just now?"

"I told you I had bills to pay," she says, pettishly, "and dresses to get." Then she lights upon what seems to her a withering sarcasm. "I have no one to take me to Madame Vauban's and pay no end of bills. If I bought dresses like that when I had no need of them and was not in society——"

"Hush, Marcia!" he commands, "you shall have your money. Spend it as you like," and he strides through the hall. He has been sorely tried with Eugene, who will not interest himself in work, and has been indulging in numerous extravagances; and business has not improved, though everything in the factory goes smoothly.

Violet is in Cecil's room, teaching her some dainty bits of French. She looks up with a bright smile and a blush, the color ripples over her face so quickly. His is so grave. If she only had the courage to go and put her arms about his neck and inquire into the trouble. She is so intensely sympathetic, so generous in all her moods.

He has come home to take her to drive. It is such a soft, Indian-summery day, with the air full of scents and sounds, but all the pleasure has gone out of it now for him.

"Papa, listen to me," says Cecil, with her pretty imperiousness. "I can talk to mamma in real French."

He smiles languidly and listens. If a man should lose his all, this dainty, dimpled little creature playing at motherhood could set a table, sweep a house, make her children's clothes and perhaps keep cheerful through it. Was there ever any such woman, or is he dreaming?

He goes to hunt up Marcia's property, and is tempted to hand it over to her and never trouble his head about it again. But that will not be the part of prudence, any more than trusting their all to Eugene. Having accepted the burthen, he must not lay it down at any chance resting-place. So he hands it to her quietly at luncheon, and that evening listens courteously to his mother's plans, offering no objection.

"But he did not evince the slightest interest," she declares to Marcia. "And you will see that every possible obstacle will be put in the way."

"And he can spend his money upon pony carriages for her!" retorts Marcia, spitefully.

The pony carriage is indeed a grievance, and when Floyd teaches his wife to ride, as her pony is accustomed to the saddle, the cup brims over. He has announced the visitors to her, and she dreads, yet is most anxious to see Madame Lepelletier.

"Was not this room hers when she was here in the summer?" asks Violet, standing by the window.

"Yes," answers her husband, but he makes no further comment. It looks like crowding Violet out, and he is not sure he wants that. He will have her treated with the utmost respect during this visit, and it will prove an opportunity to establish her in her proper standing as his wife.

It all comes about quite differently. Violet is at the cottage, and has gone up to take a look at papa's room and put some flowers on the table. All is so lovely and peaceful. There is no place in the world like it, for it is not the chamber of death, but rather that of resurrection.

"Violet," calls her husband.

She turns to run down the stairs. It is a trifle dark, and how it happens she cannot tell, but she lands on the floor almost at her husband's feet, and one sharp little cry is all.

He picks her up and carries her to the kitchen, laying her on Denise's cane-seat settee, where she shudders and opens her eyes, then faints again.

"I wonder if any bones are broken!" And while Denise is bathing her forehead, he tries her arms, which are safe. Then as he takes one small foot in his hand she utters a piercing exclamation of pain. Prof. Freilgrath is away; there is nothing but for Floyd to go for a physician. He looks lingeringly, tenderly at the sweet child face, and kisses the cold lips. Yes, she is very dear to him.

He brings back the doctor speedily. One ankle is badly sprained, and there seems a wrench of some kind in her back. She must be undressed and put to bed, and her ankle bandaged. He makes her draw a dozen long respirations.

"I do not believe it can be anything serious," he says, kindly, "but we will keep good watch. I will be in again early in the morning. There is no present cause for anxiety," studying Grandon's perturbed face.

"I hope there is none at all," the husband responds, gravely. "And—would it be possible to move her in a day or two?"

"She had better lie there on her back for the next week. You see, it is a great shock to both nerves and muscles: we are not quite birds of the air," and he laughs cheerily. "We will see how it goes with her to-morrow."

Floyd returns to the chamber. Violet has a bright spot on either cheek, and her eyes have a frightened, restless expression.

"It was so careless of me," she begins, in her soft tone that ought to disarm and conquer any prejudice. "I should have looked, but I have grown so used to running up and down."

"Accidents happen to the best of people." Then he has to laugh at the platitude, and she laughs, too. "I mean—" he begins—"well, you are not to worry or blame yourself, or to take the slightest trouble. I am sorry it should happen just now, or at any time, for that matter, and my only desire is that you shall get perfectly well and strong. It might have been worse, my little darling," and he kisses her tenderly. Then suddenly he realizes how very much worse it might have been, if she had been left maimed and helpless; and bending over, folds her in such an ardent embrace that every pulse quivers, and her first impulse is to run away from something she cannot understand, yet is vaguely delicious when the fear has ceased.

"I must go down to the park, but I will be back soon and stay all night. Denise will bring you up a cup of tea." Then he kisses her again and leaves her trembling with a strange, secret joy.

Rapidly as he drives home, he finds them all at dinner. "You are late," his mother exclaims sharply, but makes no further comment. Eugene stares a little at the space behind him, and wonders momentarily. But when he seats himself and is helped, he remarks that Cecil is not present and inquires the reason.

"She was very naughty," explains Mrs. Grandon, severely. "Floyd, the best thing you can do is to send that child back to England. She is completely spoiled, and no one can manage her. If you keep on this way she will become unendurable."

Floyd Grandon makes no answer. If Marcia and Eugene would not tease her so continually, and laugh at the quick and sometimes insolent retorts!

"Where is Violet?" inquires Gertrude.

"She is at the cottage. She has met with an accident," he replies, gravely.

"Oh!" Gertrude is really alarmed. The rest are curious, indifferent. "What is it, what has happened?"

"She slipped and fell down-stairs, and has sprained her ankle; beside the shock, we trust there are no more serious hurts."

"Those poky little stairs!" says Marcia. "I wonder some one's neck has not been broken before this. Why do you not tear them out, Floyd, and have the place altered. It has some extremely picturesque points and would make over beautifully."

"It wouldn't be worth the expense," says Eugene, decisively, "on that bit of cross road with no real street anywhere. I wonder at St. Vincent putting money in such a cubby as that."

"The situation is exquisite," declares Marcia. "It seems to just hang on the side of the cliff, and the terraced lawn and gardens would look lovely in a sketch; on an autumn day it would be at its best, with the trees in flaming gold and scarlet, and the intense green of the pines. I really must undertake it before it is too late. Or as 'Desolation' in midwinter it would be wonderfully effective."

"The most effective, I think."

Eugene is angry with Floyd for being the real master of the situation and not allowing him to draw on the firm name for debts. He takes a special delight in showing ill-temper to the elder.

"I am so glad," says Gertrude to Floyd, as soon as there is sufficient lull to be heard. "Broken limbs are sometimes extremely troublesome. But she will not be able to walk for some weeks if it is bad."

"It was dreadfully swollen by the time Dr. Hendricks came. I am very thankful it was no worse, though that will be bad enough just when I wanted her well," he says, with an energetic ring to his voice that causes his mother to glance up.

"It is extremely unfortunate," she comments, with sympathy plainly ironical. "What had we better do? Our dinner invitations are out."

"Everything will go on just the same," he answers, briefly, but he is sick at heart. His life seems sacrificed to petty dissensions and the selfish aims of others. The great, beautiful house is his, but he has no home. The wife that should be a joy and pleasure is turned by them into a thorn to prick him here and there. Even his little child—

"Jane, what was the trouble?" he asks, a few minutes later, as he enters Cecil's room, where she is having a cosy dinner with her small dishes.

"O papa—and I don't mind at all! It's just splendid up here."

"Hush, Cecil," rather peremptorily.

"Mrs. Grandon was—I do think she was cross," says Jane. "Miss Cecil said she would wait for her mamma, and Mrs. Grandon said——" Jane hesitates.

"Isn't it your house, papa? Grandmamma shook me because I said so," and Cecil glances up defiantly.

"What did Mrs. Grandon say?" he asks, quietly, of Jane; for intensely as he dislikes servants' gossip, he will know what provocation was given to his child.

"She said that Miss Cecil wasn't mistress here nor any one else, and that she would not have dinner kept waiting for people who chose to be continually on the go. She took Miss Cecil's hand, and the child jerked away, and she scolded, and Miss Cecil said that about the house."

"Very well, I understand all that is necessary." He has not the heart to scold Cecil, the one being in the house devoted to Violet, and looks at her with sad eyes as he says,—

"Mamma has had a bad fall, and is ill in bed. You must be a good girl to-night and not make trouble for Jane."

"Oh, let me go to her!" Cecil is down from her dainty table, clinging to her father. "Let me go, I will be so good and quiet, and not tease her for stories, but just smooth her pretty hair as I did when her head ached. Oh, you will let me go?"

He raises her in his arms and kisses the rosy, beseeching lips, while the earnest heart beats against his own. "My darling," there is a little tremble in his voice, "my dear darling, I cannot take you to-night, but if you will be brave and quiet you shall go to-morrow. See if you cannot earn the indulgence, and not give papa any trouble, because you love him."

A long, quivering breath and dropping tears answer him. He is much moved by her effort and comforts her, puts her back in her chair, and utters a tender good night. Gertrude waylays him in the hall for a second assurance that matters are not serious with Violet, and sends her love. He sees no one else, and goes out in the darkness with a step that rings on the walk. It seems to him that he has never been so angry in all his life, and never so helpless.

"She has had her tea and fallen asleep," announces Denise, in a low tone, as if loud talking was not permissible, even at the kitchen door. "I think the powder was an anodyne. There is another for her in the night if she is restless."

He goes up over the winding stairs with a curious sensation. She lies there asleep, one arm thrown partly over her head, the soft white sleeve framing in the fair hair that glitters as if powdered with diamond-dust. The face is so piquant, so brave, daring, seductive, with its dimples and its smiling mouth, albeit rather pale. His stern, tense look softens. She is sweet enough for any man to love: she has ten times the sense of Marcia, the strength and spirit of Gertrude, and none of the selfishness of Laura. She is pretty, too, the kind of prettiness that does not awe or stir deeply or command worship. What is it—and an old couplet half evades him—

"A creature not too bright and good For human nature's daily food."

That just expresses her. What with the writing and the business, he has had so little time for her, but henceforth she shall be his delight. He will devote himself to her pleasure. Proper or not, she shall go to the city and see the gayety, hear concerts and operas and plays, even if they have to go in disguise. But how to give her her true position at home puzzles him sorely. He had meant to introduce her at these coming parties, but of course that is quite out of the question.

Denise comes up presently, the kindly friend, the respectful domestic, and takes a low seat when Mr. Grandon insists upon her remaining awhile. Something in her curious Old World reverence always touches him. He asks about Violet's childhood, whatever she remembers. The mother she never saw; but she has been with the St. Vincents thirteen years. They lived in Quebec for more than half that time; then Mr. St. Vincent was abroad for two years, and Miss Violet went to the convent. Denise is a faithful Romanist, but she has always honored her master's faith,—perhaps because he has been so generous to hers.

There is some tea on the kitchen stove keeping warm, she tells him with her good night, some biscuits and crackers, and a bottle of wine, if he likes better. Then he is left alone, and presently the great clock in the hall tells off slowly and reverently the midnight hour.

Violet stirs and opens her eyes. There is a light, and Mr. Grandon is sitting here. What does it all mean? Her face flushes and she gives a sudden start, half rising, and then drops back on the pillow, many shades paler.

"I know now," she cries. "You came back to stay with me?"

There is a thrill of exultant joy in her tone. Does such a simple act of duty give her pleasure, gratify her to the very soul? He is touched, flattered, and then almost pained.

"You do not suppose I would leave you alone all night, my little Violet?"

"It was good of you to come," she insists. "But are you going to sit up? I am not really ill."

"Your back hurt you, though, when you stirred. I saw it in your face."

"It hurt only a little. I shall have to keep quiet, now," with a bright smile.

"And your ankle must be bathed. I should have done it before but you were sleeping so sweetly. Does your head ache, or is there any pain?"

"Only that in my back; but when I am still it goes away. My ankle feels so tight. If the bandage could be loosened——"

"I think it best not." Then he bathes it with the gentlest handling, until the thick layers have been penetrated. Will she have anything to eat or to drink? Had she better take the second powder?

"Not unless I am restless, and I am not—very, am I?" with a soft little inquiry.

"Not at all, I think," holding her wrist attentively.

"Are you going to sit up all night?" she asks.

"I am going to sit here awhile and put my head on your pillow, so, unless you send me away."

"Send you away!" she echoes, in a tone that confesses unwittingly how glad she is to have him.

Her hand is still in his, and he buries it in his soft beard, or bites the fingers playfully. Her warm cheek is against his on the pillow, and he can feel the flush come and go, the curious little heat that bespeaks agitation. It is an odd, new knowledge, pleasing withal, and though he is in some doubt about the wisdom, he hates even to move.

"You are quite sure you are comfortable?" he asks again.

"Oh, delightful!" There is a lingering cadence in her voice, as if there might be more to say if she dared.

"You must go to sleep again, like a good child," he counsels, with a sense of duty uppermost.

She breathes very regularly, but she is awake long after he fancies her oblivious. She feels the kisses on her cheek and on her prisoned fingers, and is very, very happy, so happy that the pain in her ankle is as nothing to bear.

Dr. Hendricks makes a very good report in the morning. The patient's back has been strained, and the ankle is bad enough, but good care will soon overcome that. She must lie perfectly still for several days.

"When can she be moved?" Mr. Grandon asks.

"Moved? Why, she can't be moved at all! She is better off here than she would be with a crowd around her bothering and wanting to wait on her, as mothers and sisters invariably do," with a half-laughing nod at Grandon. "Her back must get perfectly strong before she even sits up. The diseases and accidents of life are not half as bad as the under or over care, often most injudicious."

"Oh, do let me stay!" pleads Violet, with large, soft, beseeching eyes.

He has been planning how she shall be honored and cared for in her own home, and does not like to yield. To have her out of the way here will gratify all the others too much.

"Of course you will stay," the doctor says. "When a woman promises to obey at the marriage altar, there is always an exception in the case of that privileged and tyrannical person, the doctor."

Violet smiles, and is glad of the tyranny.

"She may see one or two guests and have a book to read, but she is not to sit up."

The guest to-day is Cecil, but Denise makes the kitchen so altogether attractive that Cecil's heart is very much divided. Mr. Grandon spends part of the afternoon reading aloud, but his mellow, finely modulated voice is so charming that Violet quite forgets the subject in the delight of listening to him. Cecil would fain stay and wishes they could all live with Denise.

Yes, there could be more real happiness in that little nest than in the great house. Aunt Marcia's gift has not brought him very good luck, even from the first.



CHAPTER XVI.

What is the use of so much talking? Is not the wild rose sweet without a comment?—HAZZLIT.

Since there is no real alarm about Mrs. Floyd, arrangements go onward. Madame Lepelletier and Mr. and Mrs. Delancy come up on the appointed day, and madame is led to the lovely guest chamber where she reigned before. This is Monday, and on Tuesday the elite of Grandon Park and a select few of the creme of Westbrook are invited to dinner. Laura is the star of the occasion, but madame is its grace, its surprise, its charm. The few who have seen her are delighted to renew the acquaintance, others are charmed, fascinated.

There has been no little undercurrent of curiosity concerning Mr. Floyd Grandon's wife. The feeling has gone abroad that there is something about it "not quite, you know." Mrs. Grandon has not concealed her chagrin and disappointment; Marcia's descriptions are wavering and unreliable, as well as her regard. This is such an excellent opportunity for everybody to see and to judge according to individual preference or favor, and behold there is nothing to see. Mrs. Floyd has sprained her ankle and is a prisoner in that queer, lonely little cottage, where her father lived like a hermit. The impression gains ground that Mr. St. Vincent was something of an adventurer, and that his connection with the business has been an immense misfortune for the Grandons; that his daughter is a wild, hoydenish creature, who climbs rocks and scales fences, and is quite unpresentable in society, though she may know how to sit still in church.

Floyd Grandon would very much like to escape this dinner, but he cannot. His position as head of the house, his own house, too, his coming fame, his prestige as a traveller, make him too important an object to be able to consult his own wishes. Then there are old neighbors, who hold out a hand of cordial welcome, who are interested in his success, and whom he has no disposition to slight.

He takes madame in to dinner, who is regal in velvet and lace. There is a little whisper about the old love, a suspicion if something that cannot quite be explained had not happened with the St. Vincent girl, the "old love" would be on again. There is a delicate impression that madame was persuaded into her French marriage very much against her will. She is charming, fascinating, perfection. She distances other women so far that she even extinguishes jealousy.

It certainly is a delightful dinner party, and Mrs. Grandon is in her glory. She almost forgives Violet her existence for the opportuneness of the accident. She is just as much mistress as ever, and to be important is Mrs. Grandon's great delight. She hates secondary positions. To be a dowager without the duchess is the great cross of her life. If Mr. Grandon could have left her wealthy, the sting of his death would not be half so bitter.

It is late when the guests disperse. Violet has insisted that he shall not give her an anxious thought, but he is a man, and he does some incipient envying on her account. Of course to have her up-stairs, an invalid, would not better the position, but to have her here, bright and well and joyous, full of quaint little charms, and he has never known how full, how over-brimming she was with all manner of fascinating devices until the last few days. If his mother could realize that under this courteous and attentive exterior, the breeding of the polished man of the world, he is thinking only of Violet in white wrappers, with a cluster of flowers at her throat, she would be more than ever amazed at his idiocy.

There is to be a small company at Mrs. Brade's the next evening, a reception to "dear Laura."

"You must come," declares Mrs. Brade, emphatically. "We ought to have a chance at our old friend, and you and the boys grew up together. Do you remember how you used to roast corn and apples at the kitchen fire, and go over your Latin? Why, it seems only yesterday, and all my children are married and gone, save Lucia."

"I shall have to be excused," Floyd Grandon says, in a quiet tone, but with a smile that is fully as decisive. "I shall owe to-morrow evening to my wife, who cannot yet leave her room."

"How very sad and unfortunate! Are we never to have a sight of her, Mr. Grandon, except the glimpses in the carriage and at church?"

"Certainly," he answers. "Circumstances have kept us from society, and I have really had no time for its claims, but I hope to have more presently for it, as well as for her."

"We shall be glad to see you, never doubt that. Lucia will be so disappointed to-morrow evening."

Grandon bows. Is there anything more to say proper to the occasion? He has heard so much during the last three months that he has grown quite nervous on the subject of society etiquette.

On the morrow Violet is anxious to hear about the dinner. She is young and full of interest in gay doings, in spite of her early sorrow. He makes blunders over the dresses, and they both laugh gayly; he describes the guests and the old friends, and the complimentary inquiries about her.

"I wish you could be there on Thursday evening," he says, regretfully. "That is to be a party with dancing, and plenty of young people,—Laura's companions."

"And I have never been to a real party in all my life!" she cries. "I suppose I couldn't dance, but I could look on, and there is my lovely dress!"

"You shall have a party for your own self, and all the dancing you want," he answers.

"Can you waltz, Mr. Grandon?" she asks, after a moment's thought.

He laughs. The idea of Floyd Grandon, traveller and explorer, whirling round in a giddy waltz!

"It isn't so ridiculous," she says, her face full of lovely, girlish resentment. "At school we learned to waltz, but it was with girls, and—I couldn't ever waltz with any one but you, because—because——" and her eyes fill up with tears.

"No," he answers, quickly, "I shouldn't ever want you to. I will—I mean we will both practise up. I did waltz when I was first in India, but my dancing days came to an end."

She remembers. There was the long sea-voyage and the death of Cecil's mother.

"My darling," he says, distressed at her grave face and not dreaming of what is in her thoughts, "when you are well once again, and the right time comes, you shall dance to your heart's content. I will take you to a ball,—to dozens of them,—for you have had no real young-girl life. And now, as soon as you can endure the fatigue, we will go to the city to operas and theatres. I was thinking, that first night you were hurt, what a little hermit you had been, and that we would give the proprieties the go-by for once."

He is leaning over her reclining chair, looking down into her velvety eyes and watching the restless sweep of the long bronze lashes. The whole face is electrified with delicious rapture, and she stretches up her arms to clasp him about the neck.

"Oh, you thought of me, then!" she cries, with a tremulous joy. "You were planning pleasures for me, and I just laid and slept," remorsefully.

"But if you had not slept I should have been ill at ease, and could have planned no pleasures. It was your bounden duty."

He kisses her fondly. It is quite a new delight. Is he really falling in love with her? as the phrase goes. It will be delightful to have duty and inclination join.

"I shall be so careful," she says, when they come back to a reasonable composure. "Dr. Hendricks said if I was very careful and not impatient to get about, my ankle would be just as strong as ever. I want it to be—perfect, so I can dance all night; people do sometimes. Oh, if I had hurt myself so that I never could get well!" and her face is pale with terror.

"Don't think of it, my darling."

Cecil comes up, full of importance and in a Holland apron that covers her from chin almost to ankles. "I have made a cake," she announces, "and we have just put it in the oven. It is for lunch. You will surely stay, papa!"

"Surely, surely! Who dressed you up, Cecil?" and he smiles.

"This used to be mamma's," she says, with great dignity. "Denise made it when she lived with her and used to help her work. There is another one, trimmed with red, and I am going to have that also."

Violet smiles and holds out her hand; Cecil takes that and slips on her father's knee, and the love-making is interrupted. But there is a strange stir and tumult in the young wife's soul and a shyness comes over her; she feels her husband's eyes upon her, and they seem to go through every pulse. What is it that so stops her breath, that sends a sudden heat to her face and then a vague shiver that is not coldness or terror?

Then he wonders when the professor, who has gone on a brief lecturing experience, will be back; they are counting on him for the party, and will be extremely disappointed if he should not reach Grandon Park in time.

"And he will be surprised to find that some one else has come in and taken possession," says Violet.

"He is so nice!" remarks Cecil, gravely. "I like him so much better than I do Uncle Eugene. What makes him my uncle?" with a puzzled frown on the bright face and a resentful inflection in her voice.

"Fate," answers her father, which proves a still more difficult enigma to her and keeps her silent many moments.

The lunch is up-stairs, for Violet is not allowed to leave the room, though all bruises and strains are well and the ankle is gaining every day. The father, mother, and child get on without any trouble, though Cecil is rather imperious at times. Denise will not have any one to help her, and she is in a little heaven of delight as she watches the two. Floyd Grandon loves his wife, as is meet and right, and she is learning to love him in a modest, careful way, as a young wife should. Such a bride as Laura would shock Denise.

Floyd absents himself from the great house, and sends Eugene, who is nothing loth, to wait upon the ladies and perform their behests. Laura does not care so much, and Mrs. Grandon is in her element, but madame feels that as the child was her bete noire in the summer, so is the wife now,—a something that keeps him preoccupied. She is very anxious to see the husband and wife together, but every hour seems so filled, and she cannot ask Floyd to take her. "After the party," says Laura, "there will be plenty of time. She is nothing to see, but, of course, we will pay her the compliment."

This evening reception is really a great thing to Laura, who feels that it is particularly for her glory, as the dinner was an honor to her mother. It is not cold weather yet, and the lawn is to be hung with colored lanterns, the rooms are to put on all their bravery; she wants to say to the world, her little world, "This is the house Arthur Delancy took me from, even if I had no great fortune. I can vie with the rest of you."

Gertrude comes up to the cottage in the morning for a little quiet and rest. She is the only one who has paid Violet the compliment of a call. "And I don't at all care for the fuss and crowd," she says. "I shall be so glad when it is over and one isn't routed from room to room. Oh, how lovely and cosey you are here!"

"Mr. Grandon," Violet begins, with entreaty in tone and eyes, "couldn't we have the professor's chair up to-day, just for Gertrude; it is so deliciously restful. It is shocking for me to indulge in comfort and see other people sitting in uneasy chairs."

Floyd brings it up. Gertrude is so tall that it seems made for her. The soft, thick silk of the cushions, with a curious Eastern fragrance, the springs to raise and to lower, to sleep and to lounge, are perfection. Gertrude sinks into it with her graceful languor, and for once looks neither old nor faded, but delicate and high-bred. Her complexion has certainly improved,—it is less sallow and has lost the sodden look; and her eyes are pensive when she smiles.

She proves very entertaining. Perhaps a little cynicism is mixed with her descriptions of the guests and their raiment, but it adds a piquancy in which Floyd has been utterly deficient. Silks and satins, and point and Venetian seem real laces when a woman talks about them. And the prospect for to-night is like a bit of enchantment.

"Oh, I should like to see it!" Violet cries, eagerly. "I wonder if it will ever look so lovely again. And the orchestra! I wish I could be down in the pretty summer-house looking and listening. Will they dance any out of doors, think?"

"We used to waltz on the long balconies. I dare say they will again. Laura had a delightful ball just before papa was taken ill, when she and Arthur were first engaged. Why, it is just about a year ago, but it seems so long since then," and Gertrude sighs. "Floyd ought to give you a ball when you begin to go into society. Marcia and I had balls when we were eighteen."

"I shall not be eighteen until next June," says Violet.

"Oh, how young you are! Why, I must seem—And think how much older Floyd is!"

"You seem pleasant and lovely to me. What does a few years signify?" protests Violet.

Gertrude watches her curiously for some seconds. "I hope you will always be very happy, and that Floyd will be fond of you."

"Of course he will," returns Violet, with a sudden flush. He is fond of her now, she is quite sure. She can remember so many deliciously sweet moments that she could tell to no one, and her heart beats with quick bounds.

Gertrude knows more of the world and is silent. What if some day Floyd should become suddenly blinded by madame's fascinations? It is always so in novels.

Somewhere about mid-afternoon there is a breezy voice in the house, and a step comes up the stair which is not Grandon's. A light tap, and the partly open door is pushed wider.

"Mr. Grandon allows me the privilege of making a call of condolence," the professor says, with his cheery smile, that wrinkles his face in good-humored lines. "My dear Mrs. Grandon, did you really forget you had no wings when you attempted to fly? Accept my sympathies, my very warmest, for I was once laid up in the same way, without the excuse of the stairs. Ah, Miss Grandon," and he holds out his hand to her, "have you given up the pleasure at the park?"

"I wouldn't let her give up the reception," interrupts Violet. "No one is to give it up for me," and she remembers suddenly that no one has offered.

"I should be a great deal happier and better pleased to remain here," responds Gertrude, "but Laura would be vexed. After all, it is a good deal to her and madame. Mrs. Floyd Grandon will take her turn next year, when she arrives at legal age. She is yet a mere child."

"It is so, mignonne, and you could not dance with a lame foot."

"You are going?" Violet says.

"Yes, I hurried back. Mrs. Delancy was so kind as to send a note. And I had a desire to see my friend's house on this occasion. But why were you not moved?" and he turns his questioning eyes on Violet.

"The doctor forbade it," answers Violet. "And I want to get thoroughly well, so I obey."

"That is good, that is good," replies the professor, in a tone of the utmost commendation.

They have a most agreeable chat until Mr. Grandon comes in, when Denise sends up some tea and wafer biscuits that would tempt an anchorite. The carriage is at the door for Gertrude, and an urgent note for Floyd, who has been deep in business all the afternoon, making up Eugene's shortcomings.

"You must go," Violet says, but it is half questioningly.

"Yes. Gertrude, I shall be very glad to have you keep me in countenance. We will discourse cynically upon the follies of the day and young people in general."

"No," Violet says, with pretty peremptoriness. "Gertrude is going to be young to-night. Oh, what will you wear?"

"There is nothing but black silk," answers Gertrude, "and that never was especially becoming, as I can indulge in no accessories. But Laura's dress is perfection. The palest, loveliest pink you can imagine, and no end of lace. Luckily, Mr. Delancy has not his fortune to make."

Floyd kisses his wife tenderly and whispers some hurried words of comfort. When they are gone the professor drops into his own luxurious chair and does not allow Mrs. Grandon time for despondency. He has an Old World charm; he has, too, the other charm of a young and fresh heart when he is not digging into antiquities.

Some way the talk comes around to Gertrude. She is so delicate, so melancholy, she shrinks so away from all the happy confusion that most women love. "Is it her grief for her father?" he asks.

"I don't think it all that," says Violet, with a most beguiling flush. "There was another sorrow in her life, a—she loved some one very much. If he had died it would not have been as bad, but—oh, I wonder if I ought to tell?" and she finds so much encouragement in his eyes that she goes on. "He was—very unworthy."

"Ah!" The professor strokes and fondles his long, sunny beard. "But she should cast him out, she should not keep pale and thin, and in ill health, and brood over the trouble."

"I do not believe her life is—well, you see they all have other pursuits and are fond of society, and she stays too much alone," explains Violet, with a perplexed brow. "She is so good to me, I like her."

"Who could help being good to thee, mignonne?" and the look with which he studies the flower-like face brings a soft flush to it. Torture would not make her complain, but she feels in her inmost soul that Gertrude, alone, has been even kind. And she wishes somehow she could make him like her better than any of the others, even the beautiful madame, about whom he is enthusiastic.

"Bah!" he says. "Why should one go mourning for an unworthy love? When it is done and over there is the end. When you are once disenchanted, how can you believe?"

"But you are not disenchanted," says Violet, stoutly. "You have believed and loved, you have made a little world of your own, and even if it does go down in the great ocean you can never quite forget it was there."

"But there are other worlds. See, Mrs. Grandon, when I was two-and-twenty I loved to madness. She was eighteen and adorable, but her mother would not hear to a betrothment. I had all my fortune yet to make. I threw up my hopes and aims and took to commercial pursuits, which I hated. We exchanged vows and promised to wait, and the end of it was that she married a handsome young fellow with a fortune. I went back to my books. A few years afterward I saw her, stout, rosy, and happy, with her two children, and then—well, I did not want her. The life she delighted in would have been ashes in my mouth. It was better, much better. People are not all wise at two-and-twenty."

"If Gertrude had something to do," says Violet, "and that is where men are fortunate. They can try so many things."

The professor goes on stroking his head, and drops into a revery. "Yes, it is hard," he says, "it is hard." And he wonders not at the colorless life.

But he must smoke his pipe and then dress for the party, so he bids Violet a cordial good evening. She feels a little tired after all the excitements of the day, and is glad to have Denise put her in bed, where she lies dreamily and wonders what love is like.

Meanwhile the reception is at its height, and it is certainly a success. Laura has discriminated in this affair, like a shrewd woman of the world that she is already. The dinner had to satisfy the amour propre of old friends; this was allowed a wider latitude. The rooms are brilliantly lighted, and glow with autumn flowers; the wide out of doors with its rich fragrance shows in colored tones and blended tints, sending long rays over the river. Floyd Grandon may well be proud of his home, and to-night, in spite of some discomforts, he feels that he would not exchange it for anything he has seen that it was possible for him to possess. If Violet were only here! How she would enjoy the lights, the music, the throngs of beautifully dressed women! Floyd Grandon is no cynic. He admires beauty and grace and refinement, and it is here at its best, its finest. Not mere youthfulness. There are distinguished people, who would have gone twice the distance to meet Mr. Grandon and Prof. Freilgrath. The Latimers are really enchanted, and Mrs. Delancy rises in the esteem of many who have looked upon her as simply a bright and pretty girl who has made a good marriage.

Indirectly this is of immense benefit to the business, though that was farthest from Laura's thoughts. There have been rumors that "Grandon & Co." have not prospered of late, and there is a curiously indefinite feeling about them in business circles. The rumor gains credence from this on, that Floyd Grandon's private fortune is something fabulous, and that for family reasons he stands back of all possible mishap; that a misfortune will not be allowed.

If Eugene is not a success amid the toil and moil of business, he shines out pre-eminently on such occasions as these. His handsome face and fine society breeding render him not only a favorite, but a great attraction. Not a girl but is honored by his smile, and the elder ladies give him that charming indulgence which is incense to his vanity. Eugene Grandon is too thoroughly selfish to be silly or even weak, and this very strength of demeanor carries a certain weight, even with men, and is irresistible to the tenderer sex.