"I shall forget nothing that is right to be remembered," she says, steadily; "and I like Miss Murray; we shall be friends always. She seems such a young girl and I am only eighteen. We shall love each other and take an interest in each other's houses. Now that Gertrude is away, no one cares very much for me." "It is a shame!" he interrupts, indignantly. "You and Polly must always love each other. We shall live somewhere around Grandon Park, I suppose." "And we will all end like a fairy story," she declares, trying to laugh, but it is such a poor, mirthless sound. She sees with secret joy that he is somewhat comforted, and she trusts to Polly's fascinations to achieve the rest. Love is not quite what poets sing about, unless in such lives as Mr. and Mrs. Latimer. The air is so fragrant, the night so beautiful, that the moments fly faster than she thinks. The clock strikes ten, and in a little trepidation she insists that it shall be good night, and glides up the path and through the hall, and in Cecil's room comes face to face with Mr. Grandon, who has been home long enough to divest himself of coat, necktie, and collar. She stands quite still in amaze, the quick flush he has always admired going up to the very edge of her hair. "You are out late walking," he says, in a tone that seems to stab her. "I trust you were not alone." "I was not alone." He is quite welcome to know all. "I was with Eugene. He----" How shall she best tell it? Alas! the very hesitation is fatal. "He is engaged to Miss Murray." "He abounds in the wisdom of the children of this world," comments Floyd Grandon, with bitter satire. "It is the best step he could take, but I hope Miss Murray will never regret it. She is young to take up life's most difficult problem, a vain, selfish, handsome man." Violet's lips are dry and her throat constricted. Mr. Grandon is displeased; he has not been well pleased with Eugene of late. She can make no present peace between them; something in the sad depths of her heart tells her that it is useless to try. That this man before her, her wedded husband, who has never been her lover, should be jealous, is the last thought that would occur to her. She is a little afraid he suspects Eugene, but there never will be any cause again. She will not rest until she sees him devoted to Miss Murray. She can make no confidence, so she kisses Cecil, and begins to take some roses from her hair with untender fingers and the nervousness that confesses her ill at ease.