An indefinable excitement possessed Linda, accompanied by a sudden acute fear of what Arnaud might say. She wanted more than anything else in life to go quickly, inattentively, past Bailey Sandby and up to her room. Nothing could be easier, more obvious, than her disapproval of a moneyless boy. She made a step forward with an assumed resolute ignoring of his disturbed presence. It was useless. A dread greater than her fright at Arnaud held her in the portico, her hand lifted to the polished knob of the inner door. Linda turned slowly, cold and white, “Wait,” she said to his shoulder in an admirable coat; then she gazed steadily into his frank pained eyes. “How do you know that you love Vigné?” she demanded. “You are so young to be certain it will last always. And Vigné--” “How does any one know?” he replied. “How did you? Married people always forget their own experiences, the happy way things went with them. From all I see money hasn't much to do with loving each other. But, of course, I'm not going to be poor, not with Vigné. Nobody could. She'd inspire them. Mr. Hallet knows all about me, too; and he's the oldest kind of a friend of the family. I suppose when he sees father at the Rittenhouse Club they'll have a laugh--a laugh at Vigné and me.” His hand, holding the brim of a soft brown hat, clenched tensely. “No,” Linda told him, “they won't do that.” Her obscure excitement was communicated to him. “Why not?” he demanded. “Because,” she paused to steady her voice, “because I am going to take a very great responsibility. If it fails, if you let it fail, you'll ruin ever so much. Yes, Mr. Hallet, I am sure, will consent to your marrying Vigné.” She escaped at the first opening from his incoherent gratitude. Arnaud was in the library, and she stopped in the hall, busy with the loosening of her veil. Perhaps it would be better to speak to him after dinner; she ought to question Vigné first; but, as she stood debating, her daughter passed her tempestuously, blurred with crying, and Arnaud angrily demanded her presence. XXXIII “You were quite right,” he cried; “this young idiot Sandby has been telling Vigné that he loves her; and now Vigné assures me, with tears, that she likes it! They want to get married--next week, tomorrow, this evening.” Linda stood by the window; soon the magnolia-tree would be again laden with flowers. She gathered her courage into a determined composure of tone. “I saw Bailey outside,” she admitted. “He told me. It seems excellent to me.” Arnaud Hallet incredulously challenged her. “What do you mean--that you gave him a trace of encouragement!” Linda replied: