Mrs. Jasper Wilmarth is at the summit of delighted vanity. They cannot compete with Grandon Park, but they have taken a rambling old country house on the outskirts of Westbrook, and Marcia has certainly managed to accumulate no end of bizarre articles. The rooms are large and the ceilings low; there are corner fireplaces and high mantels, there are curtains and portieres and lambrequins, there are pictures and brackets and cabinets, easels with their "studies," and much _bric-a-brac_. Jasper Wilmarth insists that the sleeping chamber and sitting-room shall be kept free from this "nonsense," as he calls it, and does not meddle his head about the rest. Indeed, he rather smiles to himself to see of what consequence his name has made her. He does not even object to being considered a hero of romance in her estimation, knowing her sieve-like nature, and that whatever is in must drip through somewhere. She adores him, she waits on him with a curious humility that is very flattering, while to the rest of the world she puts on rather lofty airs. They amuse him, and he sees with much inward scorn the respect paid her--for what, indeed? Was she not as wise and as attractive six mouths ago? Yet he means she shall have the respect and the honor. He will not be the rich man that he once dreamed of, but he has enough to afford her many indulgences. So when she makes a rather timid proposition for a party of some kind, he listens with attention as she skips over the ground and makes a jumble of festivities. "I should choose the garden party," he says, briefly, for in his mind he considers it the prettiest for the expense and the most enjoyable. There is no velvet lawn, but there is the remnant of an orchard, and the old trees are still picturesque. They need not have the fuss of a regular supper, but refreshments out of doors, with quartet tables, for the evening will be warm and moonlight. Marcia is delighted. The pony phaeton flies around briskly, and invitations are accepted on nearly every hand. Floyd Grandon would much prefer to decline, but he cannot, without seeming churlish, and Violet takes it as a matter of course. Is it a special Providence that interferes? That very morning an important telegram comes, and some one must go to Baltimore. It is not a matter he cares to have Wilmarth settle, and Eugene is not to be relied upon. He could take Violet, but it would look absurd this hot weather, and on such a hurried journey, when he has not hesitated to go alone before. Why should he be so reluctant to leave her, he wonders. "It's just shabby!" declares Eugene. "Wait until to-morrow. Marcia will feel dreadfully put out if you are not there to-night." "To-morrow would make it too late to see one of the parties, who is to go abroad." And he knits his brows. "Well," says Eugene, "I'll take care of Violet to-night, though I can't hope to fill your place. But--I say, Floyd, do you mind if she waltzes with me?"