"Papa, listen to me," says Cecil, with her pretty imperiousness. "I can talk to mamma in real French."
He smiles languidly and listens. If a man should lose his all, this dainty, dimpled little creature playing at motherhood could set a table, sweep a house, make her children's clothes and perhaps keep cheerful through it. Was there ever any such woman, or is he dreaming?
He goes to hunt up Marcia's property, and is tempted to hand it over to her and never trouble his head about it again. But that will not be the part of prudence, any more than trusting their all to Eugene. Having accepted the burthen, he must not lay it down at any chance resting-place. So he hands it to her quietly at luncheon, and that evening listens courteously to his mother's plans, offering no objection.
"But he did not evince the slightest interest," she declares to Marcia. "And you will see that every possible obstacle will be put in the way."
"And he can spend his money upon pony carriages for her!" retorts Marcia, spitefully.
The pony carriage is indeed a grievance, and when Floyd teaches his wife to ride, as her pony is accustomed to the saddle, the cup brims over. He has announced the visitors to her, and she dreads, yet is most anxious to see Madame Lepelletier.
"Was not this room hers when she was here in the summer?" asks Violet, standing by the window.
"Yes," answers her husband, but he makes no further comment. It looks like crowding Violet out, and he is not sure he wants that. He will have her treated with the utmost respect during this visit, and it will prove an opportunity to establish her in her proper standing as his wife.
It all comes about quite differently. Violet is at the cottage, and has gone up to take a look at papa's room and put some flowers on the table. All is so lovely and peaceful. There is no place in the world like it, for it is not the chamber of death, but rather that of resurrection.
"Violet," calls her husband.