h a dozen like Polly, it seems to him.
Must her life be drear and wintry, except as she rambles into the
pleasaunce of others? He could give up the seductive delights that have
never been his, yet he has come to a time when home and love, wife and
child, have a sacred meaning, and are the joys of a man's life.

The garden parties begin to wane, but there is no lack of diversion for
the young. Mr. Murray is not insensible to the charms of society, such
as he finds at Madame Lepelletier's. He has travelled considerably, has
much general information as to art and literature, men and events. With
madame, the professor and his wife, and Floyd Grandon, the evenings
pass delightfully.

Violet is left out of them more by accident than design. The elders
simply light their cigars and stroll down the avenue. Gertrude accepts
madame's hospitality with an air of perfect equality that sits
admirably upon her. She has attended dinners at San Francisco and
various other centres, given in honor of the professor, and more await
them in Europe. She is not so dazzling and has not the air of courts,
but she has the prestige of a famous husband and has recovered some of
her youthful beauty. Irene Stanwood has not distanced her so immensely,
after all.

If madame has been surprised at some turns of fate, there is one that
has no flavor of disappointment thus far, and the crisis has nearly
passed. She has attained all that is possible; she is Floyd Grandon's
friend; she can gently crowd out other influences. He defers to her,
relies upon her judgment, discusses plans with her, and she secretly
exults in the fact that she is nearer to the strong, daring,
intellectual side of his nature than his girl-wife can ever be. The
danger of a love entanglement has passed by, he will settle to fame and
the society of his compeers, and she will remain a pretty mother to his
child, and the kind of wife who creates a wonder as to why the man has
married her.

Eugene finds her in the corner of the library one evening, alone, and
with a pat on her soft hair, says tenderly,--

"You poor little solitary girl, what are you doing?"

She glances up with bright, brave eyes, and with a bit of audacity that
would do credit to Polly, says,--

"How dare you call me poor when you know I am an heiress! As for being
little, you can tell me the more easily from Polly," and she laughs
over the chasm of solitude that she will not remark upon.

"Yes," he answers, mi