"I shall tell him it did not," she says, rather dolefully, to herself, "but it was not Marcia's fault. Everything was charming and picturesque."
"Do you know," asks Eugene, at dinner, "that we are invited to the Dyckmans' this evening."
"I had forgotten it, and I ought to have sent regrets. But you will go?" and she glances up with animation.
"It will be no end of a bore without you."
"How long since my presence has added such a charm to festive occasions?" she asks, saucily.
"Well, I ought to stay at home with you," he answers, reflectively.
"I am not afraid. The servants will be here."
"I don't want to go," he returns, candidly. "I would much sooner remain at home."
"I wonder," Violet says, "why you have taken such a fancy to me? Is it because you think Madame Lepelletier treated you badly? After all, you ought to have known——" and she pauses, with a furtive glance at Cecil, who is deep in the delights of chocolate ice. "You were so much younger."
"I have been a fool," says the young man, candidly. "But you need not take her part. If you could have seen the way she dropped down upon us last summer, the swift dazzle she made everywhere! I had to drive her out and play the agreeable, for Floyd couldn't stir without Cecil, and he was full of business beside. Then she never seemed much older than—why, Gertrude was ages older than either of us. So she smiled and smiled, and I was an idiot. She was always asking me to come, and the truth is, she is a handsome and fascinating woman, and will have adoration. Look at Ward Dyckman. He is only twenty-six, and he is wild about her, but he has piles of money." And Eugene sighs—for the money.