h Floyd goes down to the park and rummages through Violet's
wardrobe in a state of hapless bewilderment, calling finally upon
Gertrude to make a proper selection. Denise attires her young mistress,
who looks really pale after this enforced seclusion. Mr. Grandon
carries her down-stairs; and if it is not a conventional parlor, the
room still has some picturesque aspects of its own, and the two
luxurious wolf-robes on the floor are grudged afterward, as Laura steps
on them. There is a great jar full of autumn branches and berries in
one corner that sends out a sort of sunset radiance, and a cabinet of
china and various curious matters. But the fire of logs is the crowning
glory. The light dances and shimmers, the logs crackle and send up
glowing sparks, the easy-chairs look tempting. They are all in the
midst of an animated discussion when the carriage drives around. At the
last moment Mrs. Grandon has given out with a convenient headache and
sends regrets.

Violet _is_ curious to see Madame Lepelletier. The lovely woman sweeps
across the room and bends over the chair to take Violet's hand. It is
small and soft and white, and the one slippered foot might vie with
Cinderella's. The clear, fine complexion, the abundant hair with
rippling sheen that almost defies any correct color tint, and is
chestnut, bronze, and dusky by turns, the sweet, dimpled mouth, the
serene, unconscious youth, the truth and honor in the lustrous velvet
eyes: she is not prepared to meet so powerful a rival. The Grandons
have all underrated Violet St. Vincent. Floyd Grandon is not a man to
kindle quickly, but there may come a time when all the adoration of the
man's nature will be aroused by that simple girl.

"Oh," says Laura, pointedly, "are you well enough to come down-stairs?
Now we heard such a dreadful report that you could hardly stir."

"I was not allowed to stir at first." Violet's voice is trained to the
niceties of enunciation, and can really match madame's. Laura's has a
rather crude strain beside it, the acridness of youth that has not yet
ripened. "The doctor has forbidden my trying my foot for some time to
come."

"She has two--what do you call them?--loyal knights to obey her
slightest frown," declares the professor.

"Oh, do I frown?" She smiles now, and the coming color makes her look
like a lovely flower.

"No, no, it is nod or beck. I cannot always remember your little
compliments, and I make blunders," says the professor,