Marcia is set wild with the first waltz. She is new to wifehood, and she stands a little in awe of Jasper Wilmarth. There are people, husbands, who object to it. Eugene is too late to secure madame, and stands looking rather bored and sulky. "Would you mind dancing it with me, just once?" says Marcia, pleadingly. "Of course not," he answers, indifferently. "Eugene wants me to waltz with him," she whispers to her husband; and he, in deep conversation with a neighbor, simply nods. There will be time enough for marital training when the worship becomes irksome, and he wants spice instead of sweet. They shall all see that Marcia has an indulgent husband and is not to be commiserated. But when he sees Floyd Grandon floating up and down with that lovely fairy-like figure in his arms, he hates him more bitterly than before. Irene Lepelletier and Jasper Wilmarth could well join hands here. The gulf between them is not so very wide. Marcia is up in the next waltz as well, but this time with an old admirer. Eugene resists the glances of Lucia Brade and makes a wall-flower of himself. He begins to watch Violet presently, and remark with what entire perfection she waltzes. Who would have suspected it in a little convent-bred girl? She _is_ pretty in spite of all detractions, Laura has discovered. How her shining hair glitters, as if sprinkled with diamond-dust. Cecil comes running up to her after they have promenaded around among the guests. "Mamma," she exclaims, "that was just as we dance. Why can't you dance with me here to all the pretty music!" Violet glances up to meet her husband's smile of assent. "Next time, Cecil," she says, slipping the little hand in hers. They do not have to wait very long. After a mazourka comes a waltz, and Cecil is made supremely happy. "How utterly bewitching they look!" says a low, melodious voice at Floyd Grandon's side. "How tall Cecil has grown in a year!" "A year!" he repeats. Yes, it is a year ago that his old life ended, and how much has been crowded in that brief while. "You are a wise man," madame says, in an indescribable tone. "You have not forced your bud into premature blossoming. There might be a decade between Laura and your wife." "I wonder if Laura had any real girlhood?" he remarks, musingly. "Why, yes, at fourteen, perhaps. That is the way with most of us. But hers, not beginning so soon, will have the longer reign. How lovely the river looks to-night! I should like to go down on the terrace," she adds, after a moment. "I am at your service," and he rises.