ear a short walking-dress. You are going to take a journey, and trains
are relegated to carriages. You can indulge in white at the neck and
wrists. In fact, there is no need of your wearing black tulle any more.
And Briggs will get you a bunch of chrysanthemums for your belt."

"You can't expect to rival Madame Lepelletier," says Marcia, in the
tone of one giving valuable advice.

"No, I could never do that," is the quiet response.

"Except on the _one_ great occasion," and there is a half-laugh,
half-sneer.

"When was that?" asks Violet.

"Marcia!" says Gertrude, half rising.

"Why shouldn't she be proud of her victory? Any woman would. All women
are delighted to catch husbands! I dare say Madame Lepelletier would
have enjoyed being Mrs. Floyd Grandon."

"Marcia, do not make such an idiot of yourself!"

A sudden horrible fear rushes over Violet. "You do not mean," she says,
"that Mr. Grandon----" What is it she shall ask? Was there some broken
engagement? They came from Europe together.

"She does not mean anything----" begins Gertrude; but Marcia
interrupts, snappishly,--

"I _do_ mean something, too, if you please, _Miss_ Grandon," with a
bitter emphasis on the Miss. "And I think turn about fair play. She
jilted Floyd and he jilted her, it amounts to just that, and for once
Violet came off best, though I doubt----"

Violet is very white now, and her eyes look like points of clear flame,
not anger. Something has fallen on her with crushing weight, but she
still lives.

Gertrude rises with dignity. "Marcia," she says, in a tone of command,
"this is my room, and you will oblige me by leaving it."

"Oh, how fine we are, Mrs. Professor!" and Marcia gives an exasperating
laugh; but as Gertrude approaches she suddenly slips away and slams the
door behind her.

"My dear child," and Gertrude takes the small figure in her arms,
kissing the cold lips, "do not mind what she has said. Let me tell you
the story. When they were just grown up and really did not know their
own minds, Floyd and Irene Stanwood became engaged. She went to Paris
with her mother and married a French count, and a few years after, when
we were there, Floyd met her without the least bit of sentiment. He
never was anything of a despairing lover. She was very lovely then, but
not nearly so handsome as now. When we heard they were coming home
together from Europe, last summer, we supposed they had made up the old
affair. She had no friends or