"Yes, a lovely white cashmere, with bits of purple here and there."
"And I shall carry you down-stairs. We must have a fire made in the professor's parlor. It will be your reception. The ladies go home on Saturday."
"And now tell me all about it, last night, I mean. Begin at the very first," she says, with a bewitching imperiousness.
In spite of himself a quick color goes over his face. The "very first" was Laura's impossible command. Then he laughs confusedly and answers,—
"The professor was the earliest guest. Then the train came in and the people multiplied."
"But I want to hear about the dresses and the music and the lovely lighted lawn."
The professor comes up and is impressed in the arduous service, but they are not as much at home as in the description of a ruin, though it is a great deal merrier. Cecil strays in and climbs over her father's knee. Her enthusiasm spends itself largely in the kitchen with Denise, compounding startling dishes, playing house in one corner with a family of dolls, or talking to the gentle, wise-eyed greyhound.
After lunch Floyd goes down to the park and rummages through Violet's wardrobe in a state of hapless bewilderment, calling finally upon Gertrude to make a proper selection. Denise attires her young mistress, who looks really pale after this enforced seclusion. Mr. Grandon carries her down-stairs; and if it is not a conventional parlor, the room still has some picturesque aspects of its own, and the two luxurious wolf-robes on the floor are grudged afterward, as Laura steps on them. There is a great jar full of autumn branches and berries in one corner that sends out a sort of sunset radiance, and a cabinet of china and various curious matters. But the fire of logs is the crowning glory. The light dances and shimmers, the logs crackle and send up glowing sparks, the easy-chairs look tempting. They are all in the midst of an animated discussion when the carriage drives around. At the last moment Mrs. Grandon has given out with a convenient headache and sends regrets.
Violet is curious to see Madame Lepelletier. The lovely woman sweeps across the room and bends over the chair to take Violet's hand. It is small and soft and white, and the one slippered foot might vie with Cinderella's. The clear, fine complexion, the abundant hair with rippling sheen that almost defies any correct color tint, and is chestnut, bronze, and dusky by turns, the sweet, dimpled mouth, the serene, unconscious youth, the truth and honor in the lustrous velvet eyes: she is not prepared to meet so powerful a rival. The Grandons have all underrated Violet St. Vincent. Floyd Grandon is not a man to kindle quickly, but there may come a time when all the adoration of the man's nature will be aroused by that simple girl.
"Oh," says Laura, pointedly, "are you well enough to come down-stairs? Now we heard such a dreadful report that you could hardly stir."