He has not been near her since, and chooses to absent himself on a business trip the first three days she spends at Grandon Park, coming home last evening, and meeting her at the breakfast-table this morning, where she has tact enough to cover all differences. He has not danced with her, though they have met in the quadrilles, and he is moody and resentful, although he knows that she is right. But he puts it on the score of money. "If I were the owner of Grandon Park," he thinks, "she would not so much mind the years between." Therein he is mistaken. It would hurt Irene Lepelletier's _amour propre_ to make herself conspicuous, to be held up to ridicule or blame. She does not _care_ for marriage; her position is infinitely more delightful in its variety. She can make a world of her own without being accountable to any one, but she has come perilously near to loving Floyd Grandon, when she considered love no longer a temptation, had dismissed it as a puerile insanity of youth. Eugene catches sight of the two promenaders. Almost beside them now are Miss Brade and Mr. Latimer. There is nothing in it, and yet it stirs his jealousy. Laura has always been so sure that Violet alone interrupted a marriage between them, and in this cruel pang he is grateful to Violet, and glad, yes, exultingly glad that madame never can be mistress here. There is one check for her, even if she triumphs in all things else. "What an exquisite dancer you are," he says to Violet. "I never imagined you could learn anything like that in a convent." "I don't think you learn _quite_ like it," she says, with a soft little ripple. "I never danced so before; it is enchantment. And I never waltzed with a gentleman until to-night, except to take a few steps with my teacher." "You like it?" He is amused by the enthusiasm of her tone. "Oh," she confesses, with a long sigh, "it is rapturous! I am so fond of dancing. I wonder, do _you_ think it frivolous?" and she glances up with a charming deprecation. She _is_ very pretty. It must be her dress that makes her so uncommonly lovely to-night, he fancies, but it is all things,--her youth, her joy, her sweet satisfaction. "Why, no, not frivolous. It is--well, I don't know how society would get along without it," and he gives a short, grim laugh. "We could not have balls or parties or Germans,--nothing but dinners and teas and musicales and stupid receptions. And there wouldn't be anything for young people to do; the old tabbies, you know, can gossip about their neighbors, and the men can smoke." "It is all so wonderfully beautiful!" she begins, dreamily. "The lawn is a perfect fairyland, and I never saw so many lovely dresses and handsome people together in my life. And the music----" The strains floating in the air are quite enough to bewilder one, to steep him in delicious reveries, to transport him to Araby the blest. "Will you waltz once with me?" he asks, suddenly, taking her hand.