"We Americans are in the habit of choosing our own husbands," she begins, after a pause.
"Yet you see how admirably this would have worked. The business was left to Eugene, and if he had accepted Mr. St. Vincent's daughter he would have had another share, and the right to control the patent. Your brother cares nothing about the business interests further than they concern the family prosperity, though no doubt he is glad to have his wife an heiress. Men seldom object to money."
Marcia sees it all in that light, for she is not dull, and she is also stirred with a sharp pang of jealousy. If Jasper Wilmarth had known more about her,—he is ambitious, and to control the factory would be a great delight to him. With it all she turns her anger upon the innocent Violet.
"I don't believe Floyd really cared for her money," she says, in an unconvinced tone. "I think he was drawn into it, and she is very ready to—to accept everything that comes in her way."
"Remember that Eugene and she are much nearer in age. I dare say the professor seemed quite like a father to her, and your brother is so grave and scholarly that it is natural to turn to some one young and bright. It seemed to me a great misfortune, and if Eugene had been on the spot I fancy matters would have gone differently. But we really must not gossip about them. They are very happy."
They go on down through the park, and meet acquaintances driving along the boulevard. Eugene and Violet do not choose this well-known way, but Marcia half hopes she shall meet them somewhere and administer a public rebuke in the shape of a frown of such utter disapprobation that both will at once understand. Madame ruminates, as she often has before, on the slender chance that bridged all these matters over before one could utter a dissent. And the most probable sequel will be Eugene's love for his brother's wife. These little incidents are strewn all along life, and are too common to create any particular feeling of surprise.
Marcia will not remain to luncheon, though madame invites her cordially. She is a little late at home, and finds her lord in a rather unamiable state.
"I wonder what Eugene is about?" he asks, sharply. "There are piles of letters to go over, and no end of things to straighten up, and Eugene has not been near the factory this whole morning. He was in only an hour or two yesterday."
"I saw him out driving with Mrs. Floyd," says Marcia, with a sneer that is a weak and small edition of her husband's.
A lowering frown crosses Wilmarth's brow, then an expression quite inscrutable to Marcia,—amusement it looks like, but she knows he is angry and has a right to be.