Madame is surprised, dignified, and puts down the young man with the steel hand in the velvet glove; explaining that Marcia had it from some other source. There really is nothing detrimental in it to Mrs. Grandon. A handsome young man of good family may be selected without insult to _any_ young woman, and to decline a lady you never saw cannot reflect on the _personale_ of the one under consideration. It seems rather silly at this late hour to take umbrage. Eugene cools a little, and admits to himself there is nothing in it that ought to make Violet miserable, especially since he has confessed that he would be only too glad to marry her now; and as for the accusation of flirting, he can soon put an end to that by being sweet on Lucia Brade for a week or two. But he really _does_ care for Violet, and no one shall offer her any insult with impunity. He means to go at Marcia when opportunity offers. Ah! can it be her husband who gave her the delectable information? Violet goes to her room and reads her letter, that is tender with the thought of return, and yet it does not move her. Floyd Grandon is fond of her; he pitied her desolate condition long ago, and since he did not need her fortune he took her simply to shield her from trouble and perplexity. She remembers his grave, fatherly conduct through all that time; his tenderness was not that of a lover, his consideration sprang from pity. Yet why was she satisfied then and so crushed now? Ah! she has eaten of the tree of knowledge; she has grown wise in love's lore. She has been dreaming that she has had the love, when it is only a semblance, a counterfeit; not a base one, but still it has not the genuine ring. He did not esteem her so much at first but that he could offer her to another, and therein lies the bitter sting to her. It is not because Eugene cared so little. How could he regard a stranger he had not seen, if he who had seen her did not care, whose kindness was so tinctured with indifference? Even if he had wanted her fortune, she thinks she could forgive it more easily. She sends word down-stairs presently that there need be no lunch, but she will have a cup of tea. She throws herself on the bed and shivers as if it were midwinter. To-night, why even now, he is on his way home; to-morrow morning she ought to give him a glad welcome. She will be glad, but not with the light-hearted joy of yesterday; that can never be hers again. It seems as if she had been tramping along the sea-shore, gathering at intervals choice pearls for a gift, and now, when she has them, no friend stands with outstretched hands to take, and all her labor has been vain. She is so tired, so tired! Her little hands drop down heavily and the pearls fall out, that is all.