He nods. "Yes, she seemed to go begging for a husband. I had the chance first, but I really fancied she was not more than fourteen or so, and I must wait for her to grow up. But St. Vincent was in a hurry, for I suppose he knew his days were numbered, and when Eugene declined--well, no doubt he offered her and her fortune to your brother Floyd, who was more shrewd than either of us."

Marcia drops in an easy-chair, quite astounded. It is true, the secret has been kept from her. Eugene had the grace to swear Laura and madame to secrecy; and Marcia not being at home when Mrs. Grandon became possessor of it, a little fear of Floyd kept her from confiding it to this untrustworthy member of the family.

"And you would have married her?" cries Marcia, jealously.

"The fortune might have tempted me. I will not pretend to a higher state of grace than your brother, and you know up to that time you had taken no pains to render yourself attractive to me. See how soon I succ.u.mbed."

"You delightful old Vulcan!" And Marcia flies across the room to shower kisses on her husband, convinced that she might have had him long before if she had only smiled upon him.

"What a cheat Floyd was!" she declares, "making believe he fell in love with Violet because she saved Cecil. But--the fortune was not certain?"

"I should have made it certain as well as your brother," says Wilmarth.

"But if Eugene repents and falls in love with the pretty little thing, there will be a nice row."

"And it does look like it," declares Marcia, who is delighted to ferret out unorthodox loves. "I mean to watch them."

"Do no such thing," he commands. "Eugene will not be very hard hit, and your brother is quite capable of taking care of his wife. They are like two children, but it _is_ a pity Eugene had not been wiser. If your brother had only waited until Eugene had met Miss St. Vincent. The hurry in this matter always did surprise me a little. But I forbid you ever breathing a word to your brother. You see what a foolish husband I am to trust you with secrets," and he laughs.

"No, you are not foolish. Of course I should never speak of it to Floyd," she says, reflectively. She would never have the courage.

"Well, that is all right," patronizingly. "I dare say the rest know it.

It was because you were not in their confidence."

That remark nettles Marcia, and she secretly resolves to find out, as Jasper Wilmarth is quite certain that she will. He has spoken of this with a purpose, not simply in foolish marital confidence. He believes Violet Grandon is very much in love with her husband, and he does not care who gives her the stab. It is this adoration that adds fuel to his hatred of Floyd Grandon.

CHAPTER XXIII.

Men comfort each other more easily on their Ararat, than women in their vales of Tempe.--JEAN PAUL.

Wilmarth learns nothing from Eugene the next day, from the simple fact that the young man neither knows nor cares what took Floyd off so suddenly. Wilmarth has a slight clew in the departure of some person for Europe, and he is quite sure that it relates to the sale of the factory, but in this matter Floyd Grandon, as executor of both parties, is not compelled to discuss the plans long beforehand with him. Floyd does not like the business any better, and Eugene is quite indifferent to it. There is not the slightest prospect of his being able to take the head of the management, and he was certain of that a year ago. He has not been blind to the young man's infatuation for Madame Lepelletier, and he secretly hopes now that it will be transferred to Mrs. Grandon. Certainly such dissipations are much less expensive than fast horses and champagne suppers. As for himself, he sees that he must go as circ.u.mstances dictate. He will make some money, but he can never be master here, with his name up in plain solid gilt letters over the entrance, as he once allowed himself to dream. He can strike back a few blows to the man who has interfered with his ambitious projects and understood them to some extent, how far he cannot decide. He is secretly amused at Marcia's warm partisanship, and cautiously feeds the fire he has kindled.

Violet makes herself contented for the next two days in a kind of dreamy fashion, when a note comes from her husband, iterating his regret at not saying good by, and hoping Marcia's party proved a pleasure.

"I shall tell him it did not," she says, rather dolefully, to herself, "but it was not Marcia's fault. Everything was charming and picturesque."

"Do you know," asks Eugene, at dinner, "that we are invited to the Dyckmans' this evening."

"I _had_ forgotten it, and I ought to have sent regrets. But you will go?" and she glances up with animation.

"It will be no end of a bore without you."

"How long since my presence has added such a charm to festive occasions?"

she asks, saucily.

"Well, I ought to stay at home with you," he answers, reflectively.

"I am not afraid. The servants will be here."

"I don't want to go," he returns, candidly. "I would much sooner remain at home."

"I wonder," Violet says, "why you have taken such a fancy to me? Is it because you think Madame Lepelletier treated you badly? After all, you ought to have known----" and she pauses, with a furtive glance at Cecil, who is deep in the delights of chocolate ice. "You were so much younger."

"I have been a fool," says the young man, candidly. "But you need not take her part. If you could have seen the way she dropped down upon us last summer, the swift dazzle she made everywhere! I had to drive her out and play the agreeable, for Floyd couldn't stir without Cecil, and he was full of business beside. Then she never seemed much older than--why, Gertrude was ages older than either of us. So she smiled and smiled, and I was an idiot. She was always asking me to come, and the truth is, she is a handsome and fascinating woman, and will have adoration. Look at Ward Dyckman. He is only twenty-six, and he is wild about her, but he has piles of money." And Eugene sighs--for the money.

"Yet she never seems to _do_ anything," reflects Violet.

"To _do_ would be vulgar and would not fascinate well-bred people. It is in her eyes, in her voice, in the very atmosphere about her, and she _is_ wonderfully beautiful. She isn't the spider, she does not spin a net, but she looks at the mouse out of great, soft eyes, and he comes nearer, nearer, and she plays with him, until he is dull and maimed and tiresome, when she gently pushes him away, and is done with him."

Violet shivers. How strange that Mr. Floyd Grandon should not have yielded to her fascination!

"There, let her go," says Eugene, loftily. "And since I don't care to see her to-night, nor the two cream-and-sugar Dyckman girls, nor--anybody, we will stay at home."

Violet makes no further protest. Cecil is sleepy, and begs to go to bed, so Violet plays and sings, and they talk out on the porch in the soft summer night. Eugene indulges in some romantic views, slipping now and then into affected cynicism, out of which Violet gently draws him.

He is so much nicer than she used to think him. And, indeed, now that Marcia is gone, there is none of that shameful bickering. She almost wishes Mrs. Grandon _mere_ could remain away indefinitely; they would all be quietly happy.

At the Dyckmans' they discuss the Grandon defection. Laura Dyckman thinks Eugene Grandon such a "divine dancer," and to-night young men are at a premium, though there are some distinguished older ones who do not dance.

The next morning Marcia pa.s.ses 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 offered her to Eugene."

"I think myself it would have been an excellent match for Eugene," says madame, with motherly kindness in her tone. "That was last summer. I should have counselled him to accept if I had been a sister. It does not seem so strange to me. Marriages are always arranged in France."