e for her. Even now she would rather
be the object of his kindly, indifferent tenderness than the wife of
any other. Eugene's brilliance and spirited devotion do not touch her
in any depth of sentiment, and yet he is so kind, so thoughtful for
her, she sees it in so many ways.

All this whirl of gayety has had its effect everywhere. Marcia has come
down with unblenching audacity to welcome her mother and take the
measure of the new situation. Floyd is very cordial,--then Violet has
not gone to him with complaints. Marcia is one of those people on whom
generosity and the higher types of virtue are completely thrown away.
She is full of clever devices that she sets down as intuitions or the
ready reading of character. Violet speaks quietly and resents nothing,
therefore she is quite sure the young wife's conscience will not allow
her to. Conscience is a great factor in the make-up of other people,
but her own seems of a gossamer quality. Indeed, she feels rather
aggrieved that her _coup de main_ has wrought so little disaster.
"But it will make her more careful how she goes on with Eugene," she
comments to herself. Only Eugene seems not to have the slightest desire
to go on with her, and that is another cause of elation.

Floyd Grandon is somewhat puzzled about his wife. He has come to
understand the shy deference of manner, the frank friendliness, too,
has nothing perplexing in it, but this unsmiling gravity, this gracious
repose, amuse at first, then amaze a little. It is as if she has been
taking lessons of some society woman, and he could almost accuse
madame. She is very gentle and sweet. What is it he misses?

After all, he has not studied women to any great extent, his days have
been so filled up with other matters, only she has hitherto appeared so
transparent. She has liked him, but she has not been passionately in
love, and he has never felt entirely certain that he desired it. Why,
then, is he not satisfied?

Oddly enough, he has heard about the waltzing from Eugene, who desires
to put it in its true light. It occurs one evening when he and Miss
Dayre have been spinning and floating and whirling through drawing-room
and hall, while Violet plays with fingers that seem bewitched and shake
out showers of delicious melody. They have paused to take breath.

"Do you not waltz?" asks Bertie of Floyd, with a dazzling lure in her
eyes.

"Oh, yes!" answers Eugene for him. "He and Mrs. Grandon waltz divinely
togeth