Madame has been extremely complimentary about the garden party, the freshness and unique manner in which it was arranged, and the pretty serving. She heard it again at the Dyckmans', and is now far up the pinnacle of self-complacency. "I met Eugene and Floyd's wife dawdling along on the road," says Marcia, presently. "I meant to call and see why he was not out last night, but I suppose he had to stay at home and comfort her. I _do_ hope Eugene isn't going to make a dolt of himself, and I am sure Violet is as fond of admiration as any one. She was always hanging after the professor until he was positively engaged to Gertrude." "I think Mr. Floyd Grandon is very fond of having his wife admired," says madame, in her sweet, suave tone. "She is such a mere child, after all, and fond of attention. And the sad death of her father, with her mourning, has rather kept her in the background until recently." "Well, _one_ ought to be enough," returns Marcia, with asperity. "Floyd should display a little good sense, if she has none." "He is not a jealous husband," and the accompanying smile is judiciously serene. "Jealous? Well, there is really nothing for him to be jealous about; a man not in love seldom is jealous." "Not in love?" Madame glances up with subtle, innocent questioning, just raising her brows with the faintest tint of incredulity. "Oh," says Marcia, with the airy toss of her head, "it was _not_ a love-match, although there was so much talk of Violet's heroism, and all that. And I wonder at Floyd, who could have done so much better, taking her after she had been handed round, as one might say, fairly gone begging for a husband!" "O Mrs. Wilmarth, not so bad as that!" and madame smiles with seductive encouragement. Marcia is dying to retail her news. If her mother were at hand; but there is no one of her very own, so madame must answer. "Well," she says, in a low, confidential tone, "Mr. St. Vincent was extremely anxious to have her married. He actually sounded Mr. Wilmarth," and she gives a shrill little laugh of disdain, "and then he offered her to Eugene." "I think myself it would have been an excellent match for Eugene," says madame, with motherly kindness in her tone. "That was last summer. I should have counselled him to accept if I had been a sister. It does not seem so strange to me. Marriages are always arranged in France." Marcia is struck with amazement, nay, more, a touch of mortification. Can it be possible that the family have known this since last summer, and she alone has been shut out? "We Americans are in the habit of choosing our own husbands," she begins, after a pause.