Jack took the short cut across the garden. There was a dim light in the sitting-room; and his mother lay in the hammock on the latticed porch, her favorite evening resort. She came in now, and Jack bolted the doors. Then, with a good-night kiss, he went to his room, and in ten minutes was asleep. Sylvie, on the other hand, girl-like, tossed and tumbled. Why was the world so queer and awry and obstinate? After all, you could do so little with it. Your plans came to nought so easily. Lizzie Wise, in her Sunday-school class, preferred going in the mill, and buying herself cheap finery, because the other girls did it. And so all through. You tried to train some one, and he or she followed the _ignis fatuus_ more readily than any high, ennobling truth. It was hard lifting people out of their old grooves. How bright and entertaining Jack had been this evening! Of course Irene had not remembered him. Would she be vexed, Sylvie wondered,--she who held herself up so high, and believed in a separate world as it were? CHAPTER IV. THE garden-party was a success, and Miss Lawrence the acknowledged belle of the evening. No one else could have carried off the peculiar style of dress. She knew that she was radiant; and triumphs were a necessary sweet incense, that she always kept alive on her shrine. There was no need of making a hurried election: indeed, her chief aim now was pleasure and conquest. They were sitting over their dainty lunch, Mrs. Eastman having dropped in; and, after the party had been pretty thoroughly discussed, a little lull ensued. Fred toyed with some luscious cherries, in his usual indolent manner. Nothing in this world was worth a hurry or a worry, according to this young man's creed. He had dawdled through the party, waltzing with a languid grace that most girls considered the essence of high-breeding. It was all one to him. His "set" affected to think life something of a bore. Intense emotion of any kind was vulgar. "By the by, Rene," said Mrs. Eastman, "do you suppose Sylvie Barry is engaged to that Darcy fellow? It was odd that she should go off on a picnic with him, instead of the party. She has the queerest, mixed-up tastes." "What Darcy fellow?" asked Irene in surprise. "Sylvie Barry! Jack Darcy!" exclaimed Fred, in as much amazement as his superfine breeding would allow. Mrs. Eastman gave a mellifluous laugh. "Don't you remember? but you were such a child! Fred does. The Damon to his Pythias." "Oh!" A vivid scarlet ran up to the edge of Irene's white brow. So that was Jack Darcy. What a blind fool she had been, _not_ to think! She had laughed and chatted with him, smiled on him, worn the costume of his designing,--a common workingman! For a moment she could have torn her hair, or beaten her slender white hands against the table. What had possessed her? "I do recall some green and salad days," rejoined Fred with a laugh.