"Hush," he commands. "She asked no favors and I made no promises. She would not care if I danced every set."

"That is just it!" cries Laura, angrily. "She doesn't care, she doesn't know----"

"She is my wife!" He walks away, so indignant the first moment that he all but resolves to return to Violet, then his duty as host presents itself. He and the professor and a few others keep outside of the magic circle, but no one would suspect from his demeanor that he had been ruffled for an instant. There is enough enjoyment in the rambles about the lawn and smoking on the balcony. It is the perfection of an early autumn night; in fact, for two or three days it has been unusually warm.

Gertrude looks quite well for her. Madame has added a few incomparable toilet touches. Floyd is attentive to her, and Prof. Freilgrath takes her to supper, promenades with her, and is quite delightful for an old bookworm. Mr. Latimer talks to her and finds her a great improvement on Marcia, but the German keeps thinking over her poor little story. If there _was_ something for her to do! and he racks his brain. There are no crowds of nephews and nieces, there is no house to keep, there is no gardening, and he remembers his own busy countrywomen.

A little whisper floats about in the air that young Mrs. Grandon is not _quite_--but no one finishes the sentence that Laura so points with a shrug. It seems a pity that a man of his position and attainments should stumble upon such a _mesalliance_. The sprained ankle is all very well, but the feeling is that some lack in gift or grace or education is quite as potent as any physical mishap in keeping her away to-night. Gertrude, out of pure good-nature, praises her, but Gertrude is a little _pa.s.se_ and rather out of society. The professor speaks admiringly, but he is Mr. Grandon's _confrere_, and a scholar is not a very good judge of a young girl's capacity to fill such a place in the world as Mrs. Floyd Grandon's _ought_ to be. But all this creates in his favor a romantic sympathy, and this evening men and women alike have found him charming.

CHAPTER XVII.

Of a truth there are many unexpected things in a long life.--ARISTOPHANES.

"With whom did you dance?" Violet asks, her face one lovely glow of eager interest; jealousy and she are unknown at this period.

"Dance? an old fellow like me?"

"You are not old!" and her face is a delicious study of indignation.

"You are not as old as the professor."

"But he did not dance, and Gertrude did not dance."

"Oh," her face clouds over, "are people--do they get too old to dance?"

"They certainly do."

"And you said you would dance with me!" she cries, in despairing accents.

He laughs heartily, and yet it is very sweet to witness her abandon of disappointment.

"My darling, I shall not be too old to dance with you until I am bald and rheumatic and generally shaky," he answers, in a fond tone.

"Then it was because--_was_ it because _I_ was not there?"

"It certainly was"; and he smiles down into the velvety brown eyes.

"And it was very base manners, too."

"Oh," with a long, quivering breath, that moves her whole slender body, "how thoughtful you were! And did madame dance much?" she asks, presently. "It must be lovely to see her dance. What did she wear?"

"Violet velvet. Well, the color of some very pale wood violets, such as I used to find hereabouts when I was a lad. Last summer I found another kind."

She considers a moment before she sees the point, and then claps her hands delightedly.

"They are all coming over to call this afternoon, I believe. Isn't there some sort of pretty gown among those things that came from New York?"

"Yes, a lovely white cashmere, with bits of purple here and there."

"And I shall carry you down-stairs. We must have a fire made in the professor's parlor. It will be your reception. The ladies go home on Sat.u.r.day."

"And now tell me all about it, last night, I mean. Begin at the very first," she says, with a bewitching imperiousness.

In spite of himself a quick color goes over his face. The "very first"

was Laura's impossible command. Then he laughs confusedly and answers,--

"The professor was the earliest guest. Then the train came in and the people multiplied."

"But I want to hear about the dresses and the music and the lovely lighted lawn."

The professor comes up and is impressed in the arduous service, but they are not as much at home as in the description of a ruin, though it is a great deal merrier. Cecil strays in and climbs over her father's knee. Her enthusiasm spends itself largely in the kitchen with Denise, compounding startling dishes, playing house in one corner with a family of dolls, or talking to the gentle, wise-eyed greyhound.

After lunch Floyd goes down to the park and rummages through Violet's wardrobe in a state of hapless bewilderment, calling finally upon Gertrude to make a proper selection. Denise attires her young mistress, who looks really pale after this enforced seclusion. Mr. Grandon carries her down-stairs; and if it is not a conventional parlor, the room still has some picturesque aspects of its own, and the two luxurious wolf-robes on the floor are grudged afterward, as Laura steps on them. There is a great jar full of autumn branches and berries in one corner that sends out a sort of sunset radiance, and a cabinet of china and various curious matters. But the fire of logs is the crowning glory. The light dances and shimmers, the logs crackle and send up glowing sparks, the easy-chairs look tempting. They are all in the midst of an animated discussion when the carriage drives around. At the last moment Mrs. Grandon has given out with a convenient headache and sends regrets.

Violet _is_ curious to see Madame Lepelletier. The lovely woman sweeps across the room and bends over the chair to take Violet's hand. It is small and soft and white, and the one slippered foot might vie with Cinderella's. The clear, fine complexion, the abundant hair with rippling sheen that almost defies any correct color tint, and is chestnut, bronze, and dusky by turns, the sweet, dimpled mouth, the serene, unconscious youth, the truth and honor in the l.u.s.trous velvet eyes: she is not prepared to meet so powerful a rival. The Grandons have all underrated Violet St. Vincent. Floyd Grandon is not a man to kindle quickly, but there may come a time when all the adoration of the man's nature will be aroused by that simple girl.

"Oh," says Laura, pointedly, "are you well enough to come down-stairs?

Now we heard such a dreadful report that you could hardly stir."

"I was not allowed to stir at first." Violet's voice is trained to the niceties of enunciation, and can really match madame's. Laura's has a rather crude strain beside it, the acridness of youth that has not yet ripened. "The doctor has forbidden my trying my foot for some time to come."

"She has two--what do you call them?--loyal knights to obey her slightest frown," declares the professor.

"Oh, do I frown?" She smiles now, and the coming color makes her look like a lovely flower.

"No, no, it is nod or beck. I cannot always remember your little compliments, and I make blunders," says the professor, quickly.

"She is extremely fortunate," replies madame, who smiles her sweetest smile, and it is one of rare art and beauty. "I am sorry to have missed you through this little visit," she continues, with a most fascinating, delicate regret.

"And I am so sorry." She _is_ sorry now; she feels more at home with Madame Lepelletier in five minutes than she does with any of the family, Gertrude excepted. She knows now that she should have enjoyed the reception, even if she had no right to dance.

Laura spies out the china, and she has the craze badly. Madame turns to inspect the cabinet. There is a true Capo di Monte, and some priceless Nankin, and here a set of rare intaglios. Some one must have had taste and discernment. Laura would like to cavil, but dares not. The professor tells of curiosities picked up in the buried cities of centuries ago,--lamps and pitchers and vases and jewels that he has sent to museums abroad,--and stirs them all with envy.

During this talk Violet listens with an air of interest. She knows at least some of the points of good breeding, decides madame. She also asks Grandon to bring two or three odd articles from Denise's cupboard.

"You don't admit that you actually drink out of them," cries Laura, in amaze, at last.

"Why, yes," and Violet laughs in pure delight. If there was a tint of triumph in it, Laura would turn savage, but it is so generous, so genial. "I wish you would accept that," she says, "and drink your chocolate out of it every day. Won't you please wrap it some way?" and she turns her eyes beseechingly to Floyd.

The love of possession triumphs over disdain. Laura is tempted so sorely, and Floyd brings some soft, tough, wrinkled paper, that looks as if it might have been steeped in amber, and gently wraps the precious cup and saucer, while Laura utters thanks. They all politely hope that she will soon be sufficiently recovered to come home, and madame prefers a gentle request that she shall be allowed to offer her some hospitality presently when she begins to go into society.

"Oh," declares Violet, when the two gentlemen return from their farewell devoirs, "how utterly lovely she is! I do not suppose princesses are _always_ elegant, but she seems like one, the most beautiful of them all; and her voice is just enchanting! I could imagine myself being bewitched by her. I could sit and look and listen----"

"_Mignonne_, thy husband will be jealous," says the professor.

Floyd laughs at that.