He reads it in her eyes, her voice, in the exultation visible in every feature. "You are a little jewel, Violet," he replies, tenderly, drawing her nearer and pressing the soft cheek with the palm of his hand, which is almost as soft. "I have been so much engrossed that I am afraid I sometimes neglect you, but never designedly, my darling." "I know you are very busy," she makes answer, in her cheerful voice, "and I am not a silly child." He wonders if there is such a thing as her being too sensible, too self-denying! While he could not now take life on the old terms and be tormented daily and hourly by foolish caprices, is there not some middle ground for youth? Are there too many years between them! "Your birthday will be in June," he says,--he has travelled that far already,--"and you must have a birthday ball." "And you will dance with me?" she gently reminds, as she slips her arm over his shoulder caressingly. "Regardless of the figure I shall cut!" and he laughs. "Oh, but you know you have a handsome figure!" "And I must do my dancing before I get too stout. Well, yes, I shall be your _first_ partner." "Oh, am I to dance with any one else?" she asks, in a faint tone of surprise. "Why--yes--quadrilles, I believe, are admissible." "I wish we had some music, we might waltz anytime," and she pats her little foot on the floor; "just you and I together." "Well, I shall have to buy a music-box, and we can dance out on the lawn after the manner of the German and French peasants." She gives such a lovely, rippling laugh that he indulges in a still fonder squeeze. It is very pleasant to have her. That is as far as Floyd Grandon has yet gone. "But from now to then," he asks, "what can you find to amuse yourself with?" "To amuse myself?" she asks, rather puzzled. "Why, you are not going away?" and she grasps his arm tightly. "Going away! No." She _would_ miss him then; but, he reflects, there is no one else for companionship. Marcia somehow is not congenial, and Eugene--how much company a pleasant young fellow like Eugene might prove. "Is there any one you would like to ask here?" He thinks of madame,--she would be a delightful summer guest. He would like to open his house, he does owe something to society for its warm welcome to him. "I don't really know any one but Mrs. Latimer. Oh," she says, with a bright ring in her voice, "how nice it would be to have them both, and the children! Would your mother mind very much, I wonder?" "It need be no trouble to her," he says, almost coldly, "and _you_ are to have your wishes gratified in your _own_ house." She cannot get over the feeling that she is merely on sufferance. As the time goes on she understands the situation more clearly. Mrs. Grandon does not like to have her Floyd's wife, and she _would_ like Madame Lepelletier in the place. But how strange that no one seems to remember the old time when she jilted him, as Marcia says.