Then she wonders why the marriages of books are so different from the marriages of real life. There was Linda Radford, one of her schoolmates, who went away last year to be married to an Englishman and live at Montreal. Linda had a fortune, and the gentleman was a distant cousin. They had always been engaged. Linda had written two letters afterward, about her handsome house and elegant clothes. Then little Jeanne Davray had a lover come from France, who married her in the convent chapel and took her away. Once she wrote back to Sister Catharine. There was a bright, wilful girl, a Protestant, placed in the convent, who ran away with a married man and shocked the small community so much that the mention of her name was forbidden. Right here are Laura and Mr. Delancy, who are not story-book lovers, either. Oh, which is true? She hides a blushing longing face on Cecil's pillow, and sighs softly, secretly, for what she has not. Denise would call it a sin, for she thinks every word and act of Mr. Grandon's exactly right. Then, somehow, _she_ must be wrong. Are the books and poems all wrong? She prays to be kept from all sin, not to desire or covet what may not be meant for her. Oh, what a long, long evening! Floyd Grandon is a guest at Madame Lepelletier's table. There are three rooms, divided by silken portieres, which are now partially swung aside. The lamps in the other rooms are burning low, there is a sweet, faint perfume, a lovely suggestiveness, a background fit for a picture, and this cosey apartment, hung with shimmering silk, and lighted from a cluster of intense, velvety tropical flowers, soften the glare and add curious tints of their own, suggestive of sunlight through a garden. It is not the dining-room proper. Madame has ways quite different from other people, surprises, delicate, delicious, and dares to defy fashion when she chooses, though most people would consider her a scrupulous observer. The four would not be half so effective in the large apartment. There is a handful of fire in the low grate, and the windows are open to temper the air through the silken curtains. Mrs. Grandon is looking her best, a handsome, middle-aged woman. Madame Lepelletier is in an exquisite shade of bluish velvet that brings out every line and tint in a sumptuous manner. The square-cut corsage and elbow sleeves are trimmed with almost priceless ivory-tinted lace; and except the solitaire diamonds in her ears, she wears no jewels. There are two or three yellow rose-buds low down in her shining black hair, and two half hidden in the lace on her bosom. The skirt of her dress is long and plain, and makes crested billows about her as she sits there. The dinner is over, and it was perfect; the dessert has been taken out, the wine, fruit, and nuts remain; the waiter is dismissed, the chairs are pushed back just to a degree of informality and comfort, and they have reached that crowning delight, an after-dinner chat.