. Her little bit of French is well
pronounced. She is not so well posted in modern painters, but she has
the o'd ones, with their virgins and saints and crucifixions, all by
heart.

They are sitting on a sofa resting, and glancing at some pictures
opposite. Denise is busy with a homely farm scene that recalls her
girlhood, and no one is in their vicinity. One small, white, ungloved
hand rests on Violet's lap. Her face is sweet and serious, without the
sad gravity that shadows it so often. Indeed, she is very happy. She
has not been so much at ease with Floyd Grandon since her marriage,
neither has he devoted himself to her entertainment with such a cordial
purpose as now. He certainly _is_ a fascinating man to the most of
womenkind, even when he is indifferent to them, but he is not
indifferent at this juncture. There is a curious quality in Floyd
Grandon's nature that is often despised by enthusiastic people. When it
is his bounden duty to take certain steps in life, he resolutely bends
his will and pleasure to them. He means honestly to love this wife that
circumstances or his own sympathetic weakness has brought him. Just now
it seems an easy matter. He has a horror of pronounced freedoms; they
look silly and vulgar, yet he cannot resist clasping the little bare
hand. The warm touch thrills her. She turns just enough to let him
catch the shy, pleased, irresistible light in her eye; no finished
coquette could have done it better, but with her it is such simple
earnest.

"Are you happy?" he asks, not because he is ignorant, but he wants an
admission.

"Oh!" It is just a soft, low sigh, and though her cheek flushes that
delicious rose pink, her face is still. The light comes over it like a
lustrous wave.

"Why, this is a bit of wedding journey," he says. "I did not think of
it before. I wish I could take you away for a week or two, but there is
so much on my mind that maybe I should not be an entertaining
companion. It will come presently, and it will be ever so much better
not to be shaded by grief."

She is quite glad that they are not away from all the old things. She
knows so little about him, she feels so strange when she comes very
near to him in any matter, as if she longed to run away to Denise or
Cecil. Just sitting here is extremely sweet and safe, and does not
alarm her.

There is a clock striking four. Can it be they have idled away nearly
all day? He rises and draws the bare hand through his arm, h