She has had occasion to write two or three business notes to Floyd Grandon since she said farewell to him, and they have been models in their way. In his first reply, almost at the end, he had said, "Laura, I suppose, has informed you of my marriage. It was rather an unexpected step, and would not have occurred so suddenly but for Mr. St. Vincent's fatal illness." In her next note she spoke of it in the same grave manner, hoping he would find it for his happiness, and since then no reference has been made to it. From Laura she has heard all the family dissatisfactions and numberless descriptions of Violet. From Eugene she has learned that Miss Violet was offered to him, and there is no doubt in her mind but that she was forced upon Floyd. She cannot forgive him for his reticence those last few days, but her patience is infinite. The wheel of fate revolves, happily; it can never remain at one event, but must go on to the next. The Ascotts' house is a perfect godsend to her, and her intimacy with Mrs. Latimer a wise dispensation. They are all charmed with her; it could not be otherwise, since she is a perfect product of society. She hires her servants and arranges her house, which is certainly a model of taste and beauty, but she wishes to give it her own individuality. Mrs. Grandon has written to invite her up to the park, and Laura has begged her to accompany her and see the idiotic thing Floyd has made his wife. She is gratified to know they had all thought of her and feel disappointed, but she means they shall all come to her first, and this is why she will not meet Floyd Grandon at his friend's reception. There is another cause of offence in the fact that through a two months' acquaintance he should never have mentioned his own aims and plans and achievements. If she could only have guessed this! She is mortified at her own lack of discernment. Laura is in the next morning. Madame has chosen a gown that throws a pallid shade over her complexion, and she has just the right degree of languor. "Oh," she declares, "you have come to make me wretched, I see it in your blooming, triumphant face! You had a positively grand evening with all your _savants_ and people of culture. Is your German a real lion in society, or only in his native wilds?" "Well, I think he is a real lion," with a fashionable amount of hesitation. "You positively do look ill, you darling, and I was not at all sure about the headache last night." "Did you suppose--why, I could have sent an excuse if I had not wanted to go," and madame opens her eyes with a tint of amaze. "Everybody else was there, of course. Did your brother bring his wife? A reception is not a party."