Ten years had passed since he, in that sweet month of roses, had first met and loved her. Ten years; and in the mean time Philip Tremain had risen high in the world, and in men's opinions; his money had come to him, partly by inheritance, partly through his own hard work; he had made his name well known, his fame was still a rising one. No need to feel ashamed for him now; indeed, no greater sybarite lived than he, no truer _dilettante_, and no one whose surroundings were more daintily luxurious. But notwithstanding the changes that had developed this, to her, unknown side of his nature, as he sat in the sunshine this fair spring morning, holding Patricia's letter in his hand, he judged her no less harshly, blamed her no whit the less, than he had when last he saw her, and refused to kiss her for good-bye. With her own hands she had torn the veil from his idol ten years ago, and he would not now voluntarily raise a finger to restore its shattered beauty. An hour glided by, his cigar was finished, the freshness of the morning had departed, before he aroused himself from his retrospect; he turned to his writing-table with a smile, and a half-uttered: "No, not even for you, my once beloved Patty; you have made your own life, and you must live it out to the bitter end--alone." His answer therefore to Patricia was a polite stiff note of condolence or congratulation, which she chose, on the failure of her matrimonial plans. A regret he was unable to accept her invitation, a hope for her happiness, an assurance that she might always consider him her friend, but nothing more; not one word in answer to the love she proffered, not one of remembrance of, or regret for the past. Patricia Hildreth's face was not good to look upon, as she read his response; if ever mortified vanity and determined revenge was readable on a woman's countenance, it was to be seen on hers then. "So I have humbled myself in vain," she said. "Well, it shall be your turn next, my Philip, or my woman's wit is of no account; you shall feel the same sting as you have given me, incased in your armour of pride and well-being though you may be. Take care, Philip, my hand is small but it is firm to strike, and he is most lost who thinks himself invulnerable to a woman's charms." CHAPTER II. THE FOLLY. About a week later Mr. Tremain found at his breakfast plate another letter, and though bearing no crest or motto, and not suggestive of violets, was nevertheless a dainty enough feminine epistle. "THE FOLLY, "Staten Island, "_April_, 188--. "DEAR MR. TREMAIN,