"Floyd," she said, when he came down, looking the faultless gentleman, "you must open the dancing with Madame Lepelletier. You can walk through a quadrille, so you need not begin with excuses. I have arranged the set." "In this you _must_ excuse me, Laura," he answers, with quiet decision. "I have not danced for years, and, under the circumstances----" "You don't mean you are going to turn silly, just because--your wife is not here?" and her authority dominates his. "It would not be decent for her to dance if she were here! We never even went to a dancing party after papa's death, until--well, not until this autumn, and I wouldn't marry before six months had elapsed. Then, I have everything planned, I have even spoken to madame. O Floyd!" and seeing his face still unrelenting, her eyes fill with tears. "My dear Laura----" A woman's slow tears move him inexpressibly, while noisy crying angers him, and he bends to kiss her. "Do not feel hurt, my child. Command me in anything else, but this I cannot do." "Oh, I know, she made you promise, the mean, jealous little thing!" "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.