. "Neither am I such a
wonderful believer in love. There are many other qualities requisite
for what I call a good marriage."

"I do not suppose I shall ever make a _good_ marriage," he says,
calmly, but with bitter emphasis.

"And yet you ought. You are handsome, attractive, you can make a
fortune if you will; you can grace any society."

"Spare me," he replies, with contempt. "My impression is, that I shall
never have faith enough in any woman to marry her."

"Oh, that is so deliciously young, Eugene! It ought to be applauded."
And she laughs lightly.

"Good morning," he says, in a furious temper.

He has not been near her since, and chooses to absent himself on a
business trip the first three days she spends at Grandon Park, coming
home last evening, and meeting her at the breakfast-table this morning,
where she has tact enough to cover all differences. He has not danced
with her, though they have met in the quadrilles, and he is moody and
resentful, although he knows that she is right. But he puts it on the
score of money. "If I were the owner of Grandon Park," he thinks, "she
would not so much mind the years between."

Therein he is mistaken. It would hurt Irene Lepelletier's _amour
propre_ to make herself conspicuous, to be held up to ridicule or
blame. She does not _care_ for marriage; her position is infinitely
more delightful in its variety. She can make a world of her own without
being accountable to any one, but she has come perilously near to
loving Floyd Grandon, when she considered love no longer a temptation,
had dismissed it as a puerile insanity of youth.

Eugene catches sight of the two promenaders. Almost beside them now are
Miss Brade and Mr. Latimer. There is nothing in it, and yet it stirs
his jealousy. Laura has always been so sure that Violet alone
interrupted a marriage between them, and in this cruel pang he is
grateful to Violet, and glad, yes, exultingly glad that madame never
can be mistress here. There is one check for her, even if she triumphs
in all things else.

"What an exquisite dancer you are," he says to Violet. "I never
imagined you could learn anything like that in a convent."

"I don't think you learn _quite_ like it," she says, with a soft little
ripple. "I never danced so before; it is enchantment. And I never
waltzed with a gentleman until to-night, except to take a few steps
with my teacher."

"You like it?" He is amused by the enthusiasm of her tone.

"Oh," sh