."

He turns with her and they come up the path together. Cecil and Violet
stand on the balcony, warm, yet full of youthful gladness. Cecil has
acquitted herself so beautifully that the two have been a centre of
admiration, and Violet has run away from the compliments. She has been
idly watching the two figures on the terrace, and as they come nearer
it gives her a curious feeling that she at once tries to dismiss as
selfish.

Eugene strolls out to them. He has been on terms of friendly
indifference with his pretty little sister-in-law, classing her with
Cecil, but to-night he has seen her in a new character, which she
sustains with the brilliant charm of youth, if not the dignity of
experience. He is sore and sulky. He has not been fool enough to
believe madame would marry him, but he would have married her any day.
He has been infatuated with her beauty, her charms of style and manner,
her beguiling voice; the very atmosphere that surrounded her was
delightful to breathe in concert with her. He has haunted her afternoon
teas and her evening receptions, he has attended her to operas, and
sometimes lowered savagely at the train that came to pay court to her.
Like a wary general she has put off the symptoms of assault by making
diversions elsewhere, until the feint no longer answered its purpose.
She would not allow him to propose, that would savor of possible hope
and encouragement; she has spoken with the friendliness a woman can
command. This course of devotion on his part draws attention to them
and is ungenerous to her. "How do you know what I mean?" he has asked,
in a tone of gloomy persistence.

She gives a little laugh, suggestive of incredulity and a slight flavor
of ridicule.

"Because I know it is impossible for you to really mean anything
derogatory to me or to yourself," she answers, in a tone of assured
steadiness. "If I were a young girl it might be love or flirtation; if
I were a coquette it might be an evil fascination such as too often
wrecks young men. As I do not choose it shall be any of these, you must
not grow sentimental with me."

She looks at him out of clear eyes that _are_ maddening, and yet he
cannot but read his fate in them. It is thus far and no farther.

"Oh," he answers, with a touch of scorn, "I think I have read of
marriages with as great disparity of years as between us! It is
supposed they loved, they certainly have been happy."

"But I am not in my dotage," she cries, gayly