"Yes," he replies. "It was an awful bore! No game, nor anything but stupid card-playing. Wished myself home fifty times. How lovely you look!" and his eyes study her so closely that she flushes in a ravishing fashion. "Are you tired to death? I have so much for you to do. There is a German to-night at Madame Lepelletier's, and we are all going. We have a guest, a young lady." He gives a whistle, and the delight in his face vanishes more rapidly than it ought. "A Miss Murray," Violet goes on. "You cannot help liking her: I do." "Then I shall," he returns, with a meaning laugh. "When you are rested----" Violet begins. "Oh, I slept like a top! Nothing _could_ keep me awake but a troubled conscience. When I get the dust of ages washed off and make myself presentable I will hunt you up. Where shall I look? Only--I'd like to have you a little glad for your own sake. You might care that much." "Why, I _am_ glad, I did miss you," she says, daintily. "We are in the summer-house reading novels." He unclasps her hands reluctantly. He has been thinking of her day and night when he was not asleep. Madame would be very well satisfied at the completeness with which her rival has dethroned her. His callow passion for her has turned his attention from over-much racing and gaming, and therein was a benefit, but it has also implanted within his breast an intense desire for some woman's admiration, and circumstances have led him to Violet. He has been allowing himself to think that if he _had_ met her while she was free he would have cared. She is so lovely and beguiling, how could he have helped it? And he sees in this Miss Murray's coming an opportunity to be more devoted to her, without exposing her to any unfavorable comments. Violet wonders how he could get through with his toilet so rapidly when he stands in the doorway of the summer-house, fresh, brilliant, his lithe figure the embodiment of manly grace, his dark eyes bright, imperious, and winning, and his smile captivating. A curious light goes over Miss Murray's face at the introduction. Evidently she is surprised and satisfied. They drop into a gay little chat. The sun comes round with such intense heat that they are driven up to the shady balcony and the hammocks. Violet is in a new and enchanting mood; she is of their kind to-day, bright with youth and enjoyment. She even surprises herself. She hardly knew there was so much merry audacity in her nature, such a capability of riotous delight. The gentlemen do not return to lunch. "I suppose Miss Murray's father is one of the literary sort," says Eugene, afterward. "Nothing of the bluestocking about her, though. Isn't she jolly?" "I am so glad you like her," Violet answers. "I don't know what Mr. Murray is, only he doesn't seem like a--that kind, you know, but I suppose he must be," she settles in her own mind. "They are very wealthy." "Birds of a feather," laughs Eugene, adverting to Floyd.