"Violet," Floyd Grandon says, one morning, "I have invited two guests who will come to-day, a Mr. Murray and his daughter. She is a very pretty young girl and fond of society. I think we had better plan some entertainments. What would you like--a garden party? I want to render Grandon Park attractive to Miss Murray." "Is she like Miss Dayre?" asks Violet, gravely. "She is a pretty girl with the usual fair hair," and he smiles. "No, I fancy she is not like Miss Dayre, and yet I thought Bertie Dayre oddly entertaining. Miss Murray is fond of dancing. The evening I was there she was full of delight about a German. I don't know but you ought to pay some attention to that," he adds, with a touch of solicitude. "It is very fascinating," she makes answer. "You know we are invited to Madame Lepelletier's German on Thursday evening." "I really had forgotten. Why, it is the very thing. I shall go down and get an invitation for Miss Murray, and bespeak madame's favor. They will reach here about two, I think, and must have some lunch. Mother will take charge of that. When Miss Murray is rested you can take her out driving. We might have some kind of gathering on Friday evening." Violet wonders why so much is to be done for Miss Murray's entertainment, and she shrinks a little at having it on her hands. But Eugene, who has been off on a brief expedition, will return to-morrow, and he can assist her. Floyd meanwhile saunters out to the hall and takes his hat, with a little kindly nod to Violet, who sits by the window with a book. There has been a quiet week, from various causes, and now the whirl is to begin again. She has not so much heart in it as youth ought to have or her eighteen years would rightly warrant, and she turns idly again to her page. At times some of Bertie Dayre's comments come back to her with a kind of electric shiver. Is she anything to her husband beyond a pet and tenderly guarded child like Cecil? a companion for her, rather than for her husband. Could Madame Lepelletier have been more to him? Ah, she could, and Violet knows it in the depths of her soul. It is a bitter and humiliating knowledge. Madame has the exquisite art of filling her house with attractive people, of harmonizing, of giving satisfaction, of rendering her guests at home with herself, of charming grave men and wise scholars, as well as gay young girls. It is true Violet has married him, but was not Floyd Grandon's regard brought about by a pique, an opportunity to retaliate the wrong once done to him? What if there were moments when he regretted it?