Floyd comes out and springs in the carriage, indulgently allowing her to drive. Violet has had a cold and been in-doors for several days, but looks bright and well when she greets him. She is such a dear, happy little thing!
Not many days after this Wilmarth meets Marcia bowling along in the spring sunshine. He raises his hat, pauses, and with her coquettish instinct she stops.
"Good day, Miss Grandon," he says, with a low bow. "I thought of coming down to call on you. Have you given up all your old habits of designing? We have some large orders and I am quite in trouble about patterns,—I suppose your brother told you?"
"Oh, he never tells me anything!" with an assumed air of disdain. "And he would be sure to consult Mrs. Grandon, who draws a little, like every school girl!"
"I dare say he never gave it a second thought," returns Wilmarth, in a reflective manner. "Well, have you given it up?"
"I have been painting in oils for the last year or two," and nose and chin indulge in an extra tilt. "I dare say I could design, though."
"Well, bring some in, if you can. I believe my brain begins to get rusty. Will you come—soon? You will always find me in my office."
There is something in the inflection of the voice that secretly delights Marcia. She has a taste for mystery and intrigue, but she is not secretive, she has too much vanity.
"I will, as soon as I can get about it," with what she considers well-bred indifference.
She shuts herself up in her studio all the next morning, all the afternoon and evening. She has a good deal of just this artistic faculty. The next day she copies and colors, and on the third Floyd goes to New York, and she drives to the factory. Eugene is out, as fate will have it.