"Leave that to me," murmured Vivian. "I am very sorry for you, Ida, and I will do all I can to aid you in this, your hour of greatest sorrow."
"You are, indeed, a true friend to me," sobbed Ida. "I shall never, never forget your kindness."
Vivian looked a trifle uncomfortable at these words of unmerited praise. She dared not remain longer with Ida, for she knew that two or three partners would be looking for her.
"Stay here for at least fifteen minutes," she said, eagerly, "and by that time I will join you, and tell you what plans I have made for you."
Ida could not think for herself, her brain was so benumbed. She could only nod in silence.
Scarcely five minutes had elapsed since Vivian had quitted the boudoir, until Eugene Mallard again knocked for admittance at the door.
There was no answer. He turned the knob, entered, and found his young wife lying senseless upon the carpet. For the second time, Ida had given away to the awful agony that consumed her. Among those at the fête was a young doctor. Eugene summoned him hastily.
"Dear me, this is quite serious!" exclaimed the doctor, as he bent over the prostrate form which Eugene had borne to a couch. "Your wife has brain fever. It is a serious case, I fear."
The garden-party broke up quite suddenly. The news that Mrs. Mallard had been taken ill was rumored among the revelers, and silently but quickly the guests took their departure, all save Vivian Deane.