in love with her husband, and he does not
care who gives her the stab. It is this adoration that adds fuel to his
hatred of Floyd Grandon.

CHAPTER XXIII.

Men comfort each other more easily on their Ararat, than women in their
vales of Tempe.--JEAN PAUL.

Wilmarth learns nothing from Eugene the next day, from the simple fact
that the young man neither knows nor cares what took Floyd off so
suddenly. Wilmarth has a slight clew in the departure of some person
for Europe, and he is quite sure that it relates to the sale of the
factory, but in this matter Floyd Grandon, as executor of both parties,
is not compelled to discuss the plans long beforehand with him. Floyd
does not like the business any better, and Eugene is quite indifferent
to it. There is not the slightest prospect of his being able to take
the head of the management, and he was certain of that a year ago. He
has not been blind to the young man's infatuation for Madame
Lepelletier, and he secretly hopes now that it will be transferred to
Mrs. Grandon. Certainly such dissipations are much less expensive than
fast horses and champagne suppers. As for himself, he sees that he must
go as circumstances dictate. He will make some money, but he can never
be master here, with his name up in plain solid gilt letters over the
entrance, as he once allowed himself to dream. He can strike back a few
blows to the man who has interfered with his ambitious projects and
understood them to some extent, how far he cannot decide. He is
secretly amused at Marcia's warm partisanship, and cautiously feeds the
fire he has kindled.

Violet makes herself contented for the next two days in a kind of
dreamy fashion, when a note comes from her husband, iterating his
regret at not saying good by, and hoping Marcia's party proved a
pleasure.

"I shall tell him it did not," she says, rather dolefully, to herself,
"but it was not Marcia's fault. Everything was charming and
picturesque."

"Do you know," asks Eugene, at dinner, "that we are invited to the
Dyckmans' this evening."

"I _had_ forgotten it, and I ought to have sent regrets. But you will
go?" and she glances up with animation.

"It will be no end of a bore without you."

"How long since my presence has added such a charm to festive occasions?"
she asks, saucily.

"Well, I ought to stay at home with you," he answers, reflectively.

"I am not afraid. The servants will be here."

"I don't want to go," he retur