ake themselves presentable. The professor
brings in Gertrude. He is--if the word maybe applied to such a bookish
man--inexpressibly jolly. Mrs. Grandon hardly knows how to take him,
and is on her guard against some plot in the air. Violet laughs and
parries his gay badinage, feeling as if she were in an enchanted realm.
Floyd has a spice of amazement in his countenance.

"Now," the professor says, as they rise, "I shall take Mr. Grandon off
for a smoke, since we do not sit over wine."

"And I shall appropriate Mrs. Grandon," declares Gertrude, with unusual
_verve_.

When they reach the drawing-room she says, "Send Cecil to Jane, will
you not?"

But Cecil has no mind to be dismissed from the conclave. Violet coaxes,
entreats, promises, and finally persuades her to go, very reluctantly
indeed, with Jane for just half an hour, when she may come down again.

Gertrude passes her arm over Violet's shoulder, and draws her down
to the soft, silk cushioned _tete-a-tete_. Her shawl lies over the
arm,--she did not wear it in to dinner.

"You wouldn't imagine," she begins, suddenly, "that any one would care
to marry me. I never supposed----"

"It is the professor!" cries Violet, softly. "He loves you. Oh, how
delightful!"

"Why, did he tell you?"

"I never thought until this instant. That is why you are both so new
and strange, and why your cheeks are a little pink! O Gertrude, _do_
you love him?"

Her face is a study in its ardent expectation, its delicious joy. What
does this girl know of love?

"Why--I--of course I like him, Violet. I could not marry a man I did
_not_ like, or a man who was not kindly or congenial." Then she
remembers how very slight an opportunity Violet had to decide whether
Floyd would be congenial or not, and is rather embarrassed. "We are not
foolish young lovers," she explains, "but I do suppose we shall be
happy. He is so kind, so warmhearted; he makes one feel warmed and
rested. It did so surprise me, for I had not the faintest idea. I used
to stay with you because----"

"Well, because what?" Violet is deeply interested in the least reason
for all this strange denouement.

"Because I never wanted any one to say that you, that he," Gertrude
begins to flounder helplessly, "were too much alone."

"Who would have said that?" Violet's face is a clear flame, and her
dimpled mouth shuts over something akin to indignation.

"Oh, don't, my dear Violet! No one could have said it, because he was