Cecil questions as to where he is gone, and why he went, and why he did not stay until after luncheon; and Violet explains patiently, recalling past times when the child has been almost inconsolable. She is so solaced by her message that she does not think of any other side. Still, she is not quite satisfied to go without him to so large a gathering, and brings up half a dozen pretty reasons that Eugene combats and demolishes. "And there will be dancing," she says. "It would be stupid if there were not," the young man replies. "Such people as the Latimers and the Mavericks can talk forever, but Marcia hardly keeps up to concert pitch in a long harangue, and Wilmarth is not altogether a society man, though I must say he does uncommonly well as a benedict. And you can waltz, too. Floyd actually bestowed the privilege upon me," and he gives a light, flute-like laugh. Certainly when Eugene Grandon pleases he can bring out many delightful graces. A little pang goes to her soul. Floyd Grandon has never been exclusive or in any sense jealous. Indeed, he has had such scant cause, but she wishes secretly that he had not been so ready to give away that enjoyment, and resolves that she will not waltz with Eugene. "Come out and lie in the hammock," he says, after lunch. "It is shady, and there is a lovely breeze; you must take a siesta to look fresh and charming, and do honor to the Grandon name. How odd that there are only us two!" and he gives an amusing smile. "What a marrying off there has been since Floyd came home! Four brides in a year ought to be glory enough for one family." Eugene should, by right, go over to the factory and answer a pile of letters, but instead, he throws himself on the grass, with an afghan under his head, and falls fast asleep. Violet drowses in her hammock and dreams away the happy hours. Only a little year ago. It runs through her mind like the lapping of the waves in the river. They are a little late in reaching Mrs. Wilmarth's. It is an extremely picturesque sight, with seats rustic and bamboo, urns and stands of flowers, and moving figures in soft colors of flowing drapery. Some one is singing, and the sound floats outward to mingle with the summer air. "Marcia certainly deserves credit," declares Eugene. "She is in her glory. She always did love to manage, and maybe she tries her arts upon Vulcan,--who knows." "Mr. Wilmarth looks happy," says Violet, with gentle insistence. "I suppose he is,--happy enough. But the marriage always has been a tremendous mystery to me. I should as soon have thought of the sky falling as Jasper Wilmarth marrying, and that he should take Marcia caps it all. I give it up," declares the young man. "But Marcia is--I mean she has many nice ways," remarks Violet, as if deprecating harsher criticism. "Well, for those who like her ways." "You are not quite----" and Violet pauses.