and do with it whatever seems best; but now she
begins to have a sullen under-current of hate for the young wife.

Marcia's feelings are not those of intense satisfaction. Why did not
she stay at home and win the professor, for it seems any man whom
Gertrude could please would be easily won? Then she is _not_ ambitious
to be Miss Grandon, the only unmarried daughter of the house. Miss
Marcia sounds so much more youthful. She could almost drag off
Gertrude's betrothal ring in her envy.

Now there is the excitement of another wedding. Gertrude will have no
great fuss of shopping.

"You all talk as if I never had any clothes," she says one day to
Laura. "I shall have one new dark silk, and I shall be married in a
cloth travelling-dress, and that is all. I will not be worried out of
my life with dressmakers."

And she is not. For people past youth, she and the professor manage to
do a great deal of what looks suspiciously like courting over the
register in the drawing-room. They agree excellently upon one point,
heat. They can both be baked and roasted. He wraps her in shawls and
she is happy, content. She reads German rather lamely, and he corrects,
encourages.

"Fraulein," he says, one day, "there is a point, I have smoked always.
Will it annoy thee?"

"No," replies Gertrude, "unless you should smoke bad tobacco."

He throws back his head and laughs at that, showing all his white, even
teeth.

"And when I have to go out I may be absent for days at times, where it
would be inconvenient to take thee?"

"Oh, you know I should be satisfied with whatever you thought best! I
am not a silly young girl to fancy myself neglected. Why, I expect you
to go on with your work and your research and everything."

"Thou art a jewel," he declares, "a sensible woman. I am afraid I
should not be patient with a fool, and jealousy belongs to very young
people."

It is the day before Madame Lepelletier's lunch, and has rained
steadily, though now shows signs of breaking away. Violet is in
Gertrude's room helping her look over some clothes. Marcia and her
mother have quarrelled, and she sits here saying uncomfortable things
to Gertrude, that might be painful if Gertrude were not used to it.

"Gertrude," Violet begins, in her gentle tone that ought to be oil upon
the waters, "what must I wear to-morrow, my pretty train silk?"

Marcia giggles insolently.

"No, dear," answers Gertrude, with a kindliness in her voice. "You must
w