hough there are some distinguished older ones who do
not dance.

The next morning Marcia passes Violet and Eugene driving leisurely
along. They have had a charming call at the Latimers', and Violet's
face is bright and full of vivacity. She bows to them with the utmost
dignity, and goes on her way to madame's, whom she finally beguiles out
in her pony carriage.

Madame has been extremely complimentary about the garden party, the
freshness and unique manner in which it was arranged, and the pretty
serving. She heard it again at the Dyckmans', and is now far up the
pinnacle of self-complacency.

"I met Eugene and Floyd's wife dawdling along on the road," says
Marcia, presently. "I meant to call and see why he was not out last
night, but I suppose he had to stay at home and comfort her. I _do_
hope Eugene isn't going to make a dolt of himself, and I am sure Violet
is as fond of admiration as any one. She was always hanging after the
professor until he was positively engaged to Gertrude."

"I think Mr. Floyd Grandon is very fond of having his wife admired,"
says madame, in her sweet, suave tone. "She is such a mere child, after
all, and fond of attention. And the sad death of her father, with her
mourning, has rather kept her in the background until recently."

"Well, _one_ ought to be enough," returns Marcia, with asperity. "Floyd
should display a little good sense, if she has none."

"He is not a jealous husband," and the accompanying smile is
judiciously serene.

"Jealous? Well, there is really nothing for him to be jealous about; a
man not in love seldom is jealous."

"Not in love?" Madame glances up with subtle, innocent questioning,
just raising her brows with the faintest tint of incredulity.

"Oh," says Marcia, with the airy toss of her head, "it was _not_ a
love-match, although there was so much talk of Violet's heroism, and
all that. And I wonder at Floyd, who could have done so much better,
taking her after she had been handed round, as one might say, fairly
gone begging for a husband!"

"O Mrs. Wilmarth, not so bad as that!" and madame smiles with seductive
encouragement.

Marcia is dying to retail her news. If her mother were at hand; but
there is no one of her very own, so madame must answer.

"Well," she says, in a low, confidential tone, "Mr. St. Vincent was
extremely anxious to have her married. He actually sounded Mr.
Wilmarth," and she gives a shrill little laugh of disdain, "and then he
o