ere only here. She has made that one true friend, whom
nothing can shake, who, knowing all, came to love her with a tender
regard that was not pity. But there is no one, no one. All is a dreary
waste.

A step comes up the balcony, and the mellifluous voice is whistling
Schumann's Carnival. Whither shall she fly? But even now it is too
late, for he meets her in the wide doorway.

"Good heavens! what has happened? You look like a ghost," cries Eugene,
in alarm. Then he stretches out his arms, for it seems as if she would
fall to the floor.

Violet shrinks back into the room and drops on the divan, making a
gesture as if she would send him away.

"I'm not going," he declares, "until you tell me what has happened.
Cecil is all right, and you can have had no bad news from Floyd. You
were so bright and well this morning, and we are to go to the Latimers'
to-night----"

"I cannot!" It would be a shriek if it were not a hoarse whisper, and
she covers her face with her hands.

Eugene is amazed. He is not a mysterious young man. He enjoys
everything on the surface, and considers it a bore to dive deep for
hidden meanings. Something comes to his aid. He skulked out of the road
five minutes ago to avoid Marcia, for he knew she would open upon him
for his dereliction of pleasure.

"Marcia has been here," he announces. "She has said something to you,
the spiteful little cat! See here, I can guess what unmitigated drivel
it is. She has accused you of flirting with me, and said I stayed at
home to keep you company when I should have been at the German."

The rift of color in Violet's face answers him.

"I believe I should like to wring her neck, the little hussy! Well, you
are not to mind a bit of it. In the first place you are a little
innocent and do not know how to flirt, even if you have magnificent
eyes. You are too honest, too true; and it's all awful stuff, said out
of pure jealousy."

He has not comforted her. The awe-stricken face is still ashen,
despairing. Any other girl would almost rush to his arms, she seems to
go farther and farther away. Her large eyes look him over. He has a
handsome face, and now it is kindly, sympathetic.

"Tell me," he says, peremptorily. "You know you've never flirted. Why,
you might make yourself more attractive than ten Marcias could possibly
be; and, see here, I've never kissed you, though you have been my
brother's wife for more than a year, and--bosh!" with the utmost
contempt.