Men comfort each other more easily on their Ararat, than women in their
vales of Tempe.--JEAN PAUL.
Wilmarth learns nothing from Eugene the next day, from the simple fact
that the young man neither knows nor cares what took Floyd off so
suddenly. Wilmarth has a slight clew in the departure of some person
for Europe, and he is quite sure that it relates to the sale of the
factory, but in this matter Floyd Grandon, as executor of both parties,
is not compelled to discuss the plans long beforehand with him. Floyd
does not like the business any better, and Eugene is quite indifferent
to it. There is not the slightest prospect of his being able to take
the head of the management, and he was certain of that a year ago. He
has not been blind to the young man's infatuation for Madame
Lepelletier, and he secretly hopes now that it will be transferred to
Mrs. Grandon. Certainly such dissipations are much less expensive than
fast horses and champagne suppers. As for himself, he sees that he must
go as circumstances dictate. He will make some money, but he can never
be master here, with his name up in plain solid gilt letters over the
entrance, as he once allowed himself to dream. He can strike back a few
blows to the man who has interfered with his ambitious projects and
understood them to some extent, how far he cannot decide. He is
secretly amused at Marcia's warm partisanship, and cautiously feeds the
fire he has kindled.
Violet makes herself contented for the next two days in a kind of
dreamy fashion, when a note comes from her husband, iterating his
regret at not saying good by, and hoping Marcia's party proved a
pleasure.
"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.
"Yet she never seems to _do_ anything," reflects Violet.
"To _do_ would be vulgar and would not fascinate well-bred people. It
is in her eyes, in her voice, in the very atmosphere about her, and she
_is_ wonderfully beautiful. She isn't the spider, she does not spin a
net, but she looks at the mouse out of great, soft eyes, and he comes
nearer, nearer, and she plays with him, until he is dull and maimed and
tiresome, when she gently pushes him away, and is done with him."
Violet shivers. How strange that Mr. Floyd Grandon should not have
yielded to her fascination!
"There, let her go," says Eugene, loftily. "And since I don't care to
see her to-night, nor the two cream-and-sugar Dyckman girls,
nor--anybody, we will stay at home."
Violet makes no further protest. Cecil is sleepy, and begs to go to
bed, so Violet plays and sings, and they talk out on the porch in the
soft summer night. Eugene indulges in some romantic views, slipping now
and then into affected cynicism, out of which Violet gently draws him.
He is so much nicer than she used to think him. And, indeed, now that
Marcia is gone, there is none of that shameful bickering. She almost
wishes Mrs. Grandon _mère_ could remain away indefinitely; they would
all be quietly happy.
At the Dyckmans' they discuss the Grandon defection. Laura Dyckman
thinks Eugene Grandon such a "divine dancer," and to-night young men
are at a premium, though there are some distinguished older ones who do
not dance.
The next morning Marcia passes Violet and Eugene driving leisurely
along. They have had a charming call at the Latimers', and Violet's
face is bright and full of vivacity. She bows to them with the utmost
dignity, and goes on her way to madame's, whom she finally beguiles out
in her pony carriage.
Madame has been extremely complimentary about the garden party, the
freshness and unique manner in which it was arranged, and the pretty
serving. She heard it again at the Dyckmans', and is now far up the
pinnacle of self-complacency.
"I met Eugene and Floyd's wife dawdling along on the road," says
Marcia, presently. "I meant to call and see why he was not out last
night, but I suppose he had to stay at home and comfort her. I _do_
hope Eugene isn't going to make a dolt of himself, and I am sure Violet
is as fond of admiration as any one. She was always hanging after the
professor until he was positively engaged to Gertrude."
"I think Mr. Floyd Grandon is very fond of having his wife admired,"
says madame, in her sweet, suave tone. "She is such a mere child, after
all, and fond of attention. And the sad death of her father, with her
mourning, has rather kept her in the background until recently."
"Well, _one_ ought to be enough," returns Marcia, with asperity. "Floyd
should display a little good sense, if she has none."
"He is not a jealous husband," and the accompanying smile is
judiciously serene.
"Jealous? Well, there is really nothing for him to be jealous about; a
man not in love seldom is jealous."
"Not in love?" Madame glances up with subtle, innocent questioning,
just raising her brows with the faintest tint of incredulity.
"Oh," says Marcia, with the airy toss of her head, "it was _not_ a
love-match, although there was so much talk of Violet's heroism, and
all that. And I wonder at Floyd, who could have done so much better,
taking her after she had been handed round, as one might say, fairly
gone begging for a husband!"
"O Mrs. Wilmarth, not so bad as that!" and madame smiles with seductive
encouragement.
Marcia is dying to retail her news. If her mother were at hand; but
there is no one of her very own, so madame must answer.
"Well," she says, in a low, confidential tone, "Mr. St. Vincent was
extremely anxious to have her married. He actually sounded Mr.
Wilmarth," and she gives a shrill little laugh of disdain, "and then he
offered her to Eugene."
"I think myself it would have been an excellent match for Eugene," says
madame, with motherly kindness in her tone. "That was last summer. I
should have counselled him to accept if I had been a sister. It does
not seem so strange to me. Marriages are always arranged in France."
Marcia is struck with amazement, nay, more, a touch of mortification.
Can it be possible that the family have known this since last summer,
and she alone has been shut out?
"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.
"I will go down there this afternoon," she says, with alacrity.
"You will do no such thing. No doubt your brother has engaged Eugene to
entertain his wife in his absence. For business men they are both----"
The servant comes in and the sentence is unfinished. But Jasper
Wilmarth is thinking that no doubt the handsome young man is very
pleasing to Mrs. Floyd Grandon, and if the husband should wake up some
day on the verge of a scandal, why, it will be one of those rare
strokes of accidental, otherwise poetic justice.
Marcia _does_ go "home," as they still call the place. Eugene is not
about and Mrs. Latimer is spending the afternoon in an old-fashioned
way with a nurse and two children. Marcia's fine moral sense is shocked
at the duplicity of Mrs. Floyd, and she announces the fact to her
husband at dinner, to which he replies with an uncomfortable laugh.
Eugene brings Violet a letter on his return, and her face is illumined
with eager joy. She cannot wait to retire becomingly to her own room,
but breaks the seal on the porch, and is deep in its contents.
"Oh!" she cries at first, in disappointment.
"Floyd has gone on to Chicago," announces Eugene. "Wilmarth turned
black as a thunder-cloud over the news. He scents treason, stratagems,
and conspiracies."
Violet looks up in curious amaze. "Mr. Grandon will never do
anything--that is _not_ right," she adds, after a moment.
Eugene shrugs his shoulders. "What may be right enough for him might
hit Wilmarth hard," says the young man, and the tone implies that he
would rather enjoy the hard hitting.
Violet hardly hears that. She colors delicately over the remainder of
the letter, which is not long, but touches her inexpressibly. He misses
her amid all this haste and turmoil, and it is sweet to be so dear to
him, that he really wants her, that he would like to be at home with
her.
"Papa sends you a dozen kisses," she says, as Cecil comes flying
towards her.
She is so gay and vivacious through dinner, and afterwards they go out
on the river, rowed by Briggs, for Eugene is much too careful of his
hands and his exertion to undertake such work this delicious evening.
He and Violet sing duets as the purple film displaces the glories of
azure and gold, and the twilight shadows the dusky bits of wood, the
frowning rocks, and the indentations of shore that might be nereid
haunts. The sky turns from its vivid tints to a dreamy gray, then a
translucent blue, and a few stars steal slowly out. How lovely it all
is! How kind Eugene is proving himself, and she wonders that she never
remarked his pleasant traits before! Was it being so much in love with
madame that made him captious and irritable, or was it Marcia's little
ways of remarking upon every word or act that did not quite please her?
"We must go back," she says, presently. "Cecil has fallen asleep, and
it will not do to keep her out in the night air. How utterly lovely it
is!" and she gives a deep inspiration of content.
"It is because you enjoy everything in that keen, ardent sort of way,"
says Eugene. "You are very different from what I thought you at first."
"What did you think me?" she asks, in spite of Briggs sitting calmly
there.
"Well, you seemed such a little girl," answers Eugene, "and you were
always so shy, except with the professor. Did you really like him so
much? I should have been bored to death with all that prosy writing.
Briggs," turning to the rower, as Violet covers Cecil more closely, "we
will steer our barque homeward. It is a shame not to stay out this
magnificent night."
"We ought to be on the river a great deal more," returns Violet. "It is
so tranquil and soothing, and there is a suggestive weirdness in it, as
if you were going on to some mystery."
Her voice drops to such a soft key as she utters the last word. The
very air seems full of mystery to her, of messages carried back and
forth. Will hers go to the one she is thinking of?
When they land, Eugene takes Cecil in his arms and carries her up the
terrace with a strange emotion of tenderness. He is fond of teasing her
and hearing saucy replies, but ordinarily he does not care much for
children.
Violet helps to undress the sleepy girl and gives her more than the
dozen kisses. Floyd has said in his letter, "I shall keep yours on
interest until I come." And she suddenly hides her blushing face on the
pillow beside the child. What does all this eager tremor and
expectation mean?
"Violet," calls Eugene up the stairway, "come down. Isn't Cecil
asleep?"
She would rather stay there and dream, but she seldom thinks of herself
first. Cecil is sleeping soundly, and she glides down to talk a little,
play a little, and sing a few songs. Listening to her, Eugene begins to
consider himself a consummate fool. He would not marry madame if he
could. If it were all to do over again,--but then he was _not_
prepossessed with Violet when he first saw her, and now it is too late.
He has no high and fine sentiments, he simply recognizes the fact that
she is the wife of another; and though youth may indulge in foolish
fondness, it is generally older and riper natures that are ready for a
plunge in the wild vortex of passion.
Their days pass in simple idyllic fashion. Another party is neglected,
and even a German passed by, to the great astonishment of Marcia. She
has called home several times, but _they_ have been out, not always
together, though she chooses to think so. Violet has spent hours and
hours with Mrs. Latimer, whose great charm is that she talks of Floyd
Grandon, and she is amused with her ready, devoted listener.
Marcia does find her at home one morning.
"I think it a shame that Eugene did not go to the Brades' last night;"
and her voice is thinner, sharper than usual, a sure sign of vexation.
"They had counted on him for the German, and were awfully
disappointed."
"I did not want to go," replies Violet, in a soft, excusing tone.
"I don't see what that had to do with it," is Marcia's short, pointed
comment.
Violet glances up. "Why, yes, he could have gone," she says,
cheerfully. "I told him I did not mind staying alone. I do not
understand Germans, and----"
"You could have looked on," interrupts Marcia. "It seems extremely
disobliging to the Brades, when they have taken the pains to cultivate
you."
"I have never been in company without Mr. Grandon," Violet says, in a
steady tone, though her cheeks are scarlet, "except at your garden
party, and then _he_ asked Eugene to take me."
"Admirable condescension!" returns Marcia, angrily. "But possibly you
may subject yourself quite as much to criticism by staying at home so
closely with a young man. It is shameful how Eugene has gone on, hardly
a day at the factory, and you two driving about and mooning on
balconies and dawdling through the grounds. Very late admiration, too,
on his part, when he would not take you in the first instance."
"Would not take me in the first instance?" Violet repeats, in a dazed,
questioning way.
"Exactly," snaps Marcia. "Perhaps you are not aware an offer of your
hand and fortune was made to Eugene Grandon, _and_ declined. So you
know now what his admiration is worth! He is ready to flirt with any----"
silly girl, she means to say, but makes it more stinging--"_any_ girl
who throws herself at his head."
"I do not in the least understand you," Violet begins, with quiet
dignity, though her voice has an unsteady sound. "_When_ was my hand
offered to Mr. Eugene Grandon?"
Marcia is a little frightened at her temerity, but she is in for it
now, and may as well make a clean sweep of all her vexations. From Mr.
Wilmarth she has gathered the idea that Floyd's marriage has been
inimical to him, and that business would have been much better served
by Violet's union with Eugene. Then, all the family have disapproved of
it, and it has been kept a secret from her. All these are sufficient
wrongs, but the fact still remains that in some way Floyd is likely to
make a great fortune for Violet, while the rest will gain nothing. More
than all, Marcia has a good deal of the wasp in her nature, and loves
to make a great buzz, as well as to sting.
"Why," she answers, with airy insolence, "Floyd wished him to marry you
and he declined, then Floyd married you himself. Your fortune was too
valuable to go out of the family, I suppose. It was about the time your
father died."
Violet pales with a mortal hurt.
"I think you are wrong there," and she summons all her strength to
combat this monstrous accusation. "Mr. Grandon liked me
because--because----"
"Oh, yes; saving Cecil gave color to the romance, and it is all very
pretty," says Marcia, with insufferable patronage. "But there was some
one else, and he could have had quite as much fortune without any
trouble. He was a fool for not marrying her."
"You shall not discuss Mr. Grandon in this manner to me," declares
Violet, indignant with wifely instincts.
"Oh, you asked me yourself!" retorts her antagonist. "If you were at
all sharp-sighted you could have seen----"
Violet stops Marcia with a gesture of her hand. She stands there white
as snow, but her eyes are larger, and gleam black, the color and
tenderness have gone out of her scarlet mouth, and she seems to grow
taller. Marcia is checked in her onslaught, and a half-misgiving comes
to her.
"After all," she says, presently, in a more moderate tone, "I supposed
you _did_ know something about it. You really ought to have been told
in the beginning, as all the rest were, it seems." And she adds the
last a little bitterly, remembering she has been shut out of the family
conference.
"Mr. Grandon did what was right and best," Violet returns, loyally.
"I suppose we all do what we think best," comments Marcia, with an air
of wisdom, and experience sits enthroned on the little strip of brow
above her eyes. "Well, I'm sorry you were not at the Brades', and I do
think Eugene ought to pay better attention to business, especially now
that Floyd is away. And I don't see why he should stay away from
parties if you do not want to go."
"There is no reason," answers Violet, coldly.
Marcia bids her good morning, and flies down the steps with the air of
one who has performed her whole duty. Now that she has attained to
married respectability, she feels quite free to criticise the rest of
the world, and she rejoices in the fact that she does carry more weight
than a single woman.
Violet stands by the window where Marcia left her. She is very glad to
be alone, and thankful that Cecil is at the Latimers' for the day,
although she is due there for a kind of nursery tea-party. A whirlwind
seems to have swept over her, to have lifted her up bodily and carried
her out of the sphere she was in two hours ago, and in this new country
all is strange; on this desolate shore where she is stranded the sea
moans in dull lament, as if the soul had gone out of that also, and
left an aching heart behind. She might dismiss Marcia's tirade as other
members of the family are wont to do, but there comes an awesome,
shivering fear that it is true in some degree. How many times she has
seen Gertrude check Marcia when Floyd was under discussion. She has
never tried to pry into family secrets, but she knows there have been
many about her; a certain kind of knowledge that all have shared, a
something against her. She has fancied that she made some advances in
living down the dislike; Mrs. Grandon has been kinder of late, and
Marcia, since her marriage, quite confidential. Instead, she has done
nothing, gained nothing.
If Gertrude were only here. She has made that one true friend, whom
nothing can shake, who, knowing all, came to love her with a tender
regard that was not pity. But there is no one, no one. All is a dreary
waste.
A step comes up the balcony, and the mellifluous voice is whistling
Schumann's Carnival. Whither shall she fly? But even now it is too
late, for he meets her in the wide doorway.
"Good heavens! what has happened? You look like a ghost," cries Eugene,
in alarm. Then he stretches out his arms, for it seems as if she would
fall to the floor.
Violet shrinks back into the room and drops on the divan, making a
gesture as if she would send him away.
"I'm not going," he declares, "until you tell me what has happened.
Cecil is all right, and you can have had no bad news from Floyd. You
were so bright and well this morning, and we are to go to the Latimers'
to-night----"
"I cannot!" It would be a shriek if it were not a hoarse whisper, and
she covers her face with her hands.
Eugene is amazed. He is not a mysterious young man. He enjoys
everything on the surface, and considers it a bore to dive deep for
hidden meanings. Something comes to his aid. He skulked out of the road
five minutes ago to avoid Marcia, for he knew she would open upon him
for his dereliction of pleasure.
"Marcia has been here," he announces. "She has said something to you,
the spiteful little cat! See here, I can guess what unmitigated drivel
it is. She has accused you of flirting with me, and said I stayed at
home to keep you company when I should have been at the German."
The rift of color in Violet's face answers him.
"I believe I should like to wring her neck, the little hussy! Well, you
are not to mind a bit of it. In the first place you are a little
innocent and do not know how to flirt, even if you have magnificent
eyes. You are too honest, too true; and it's all awful stuff, said out
of pure jealousy."
He has not comforted her. The awe-stricken face is still ashen,
despairing. Any other girl would almost rush to his arms, she seems to
go farther and farther away. Her large eyes look him over. He has a
handsome face, and now it is kindly, sympathetic.
"Tell me," he says, peremptorily. "You know you've never flirted. Why,
you might make yourself more attractive than ten Marcias could possibly
be; and, see here, I've never kissed you, though you have been my
brother's wife for more than a year, and--bosh!" with the utmost
contempt. "Oh, does it trouble you so?" After a moment, "My dear, dear
girl, don't worry about it," and his face is full of genuine distress.
The common comfort of life will not apply to this case.
"It was wrong," she says, tremulously. "You have stayed home from
business, and----"
He laughs, it seems so utterly absurd. Many a day has he been away from
the factory and perhaps not half so innocently employed.
"See here," he begins, "we will let Floyd settle it when he comes home.
Good heavens, won't he make it hot for Marcia! I shall tell him
myself."
"No, no!" and Violet starts up in anguish. "You must not utter a word!"
"Well, why?" asks Eugene, with a kind of obstinate candor. "I'm
sure--flirting, indeed! Why, Marcia couldn't be an hour in the room
with any fellow, young or old, that she wouldn't make big eyes at him.
I like to see people turn saints at short notice. I'll go off and have
it out with her myself, and make her keep a civil tongue in the
future."
"Eugene!" Violet cries, in distress, as he is half-way through the
hall. Oh, what shall she do? Must she go wild with all this pain and
shame?
"Well," he ejaculates, again standing indecisively.
"She said other things," and the dry lips move convulsively. "I must
know; I cannot live with this horrible shadow over everything. There is
no one else to ask."
He comes and seats himself on the divan beside her, and there is a
glimpse of Floyd in his face. His voice falls to a most persuasive
inflection as he rejoins, "Tell me, ask me anything, and I will answer
you truly. There has never been any horrible thing since you came here,
or ever that I can remember. What did Marcia say?"
Perhaps, after all, Marcia did not tell the exact truth, and Violet's
despairing face lightens. Marcia may have Charles Lamb's way of
thinking the truth too precious to be wasted upon everybody, for she is
sometimes extremely economizing. And Violet _must_ know.
"You will tell me if--if Mr. Grandon asked you to marry me--before----"
Eugene springs up and utters a low, angry ejaculation, strides across
the floor and then back again. Violet's face is crimsoned to its utmost
capacity, and her eyes have that awful beseechingness that cuts him to
the soul. If he could, if he dared deny it! but even as this flashes
through his brain a stony kind of certainty settles in every line, and
he gathers that denial would be useless.
"See here, my dear little sister," and sitting down he takes the small,
cold hand in his. "I will tell you the truth. There is nothing horrible
or disgraceful in it! Your father proposed that instead of having any
business trouble to be years in the course of settlement, I should
marry you, as the patent was in such an uncertain state and he had
invested everything in it. It simply joined the fortunes, don't you
see? Well, I was a dumb, blundering idiot, head over heels in an
infatuation, and knew nothing about you, but it will be the regret of
my whole life that I did _not_ come when Floyd sent for me. And I
suppose he fell in love with you himself; he could not have cared for
the fortune, he had enough of his own."
Violet draws a long, shivering breath, but her very soul seems icy cold
with doubt.
"You did not--despise me?" she cries, with passionate entreaty.
"Despise you? Why, I didn't know anything about you." The young man's
lethargic conscience gives him a severe prick. He should not have made
light of it to Laura and madame, but he _did_ bind them to inviolate
secrecy. "If I had seen you I should not have despised you, I should
have married you," he says, triumphantly. "If you were free to-day, I
should ask you to marry me. I think you the sweetest and most rarely
honest girl I have ever met, and you _are_ beautiful, though I wouldn't
own that at first. Despise you? Why, I would fight the whole world for
you, and I will, if----"
"No," she interrupts. Even his spirited defence cannot restore what has
been so rudely wrenched away. She feels so old, so weary, so desolate,
that nothing matters. "It is not so bad----" and she looks up with
piteous eyes.
"Why, there is nothing bad about it at all," he declares, impatiently.
"Don't the English and the French plan marriages, and there are people
here whose parents join fortunes, lots of them! Marcia was angry and
wanted to mortify you. The idea of marrying Jasper Wilmarth and then
lording it over everybody, is too good! And as for flirting--well, I
wouldn't dare flirt with you," he says, laughingly. "Floyd would soon
settle me. I like you too well, I honor you too much," he continues.
"There, will you not be comforted with something? Oh, I have a letter
from Floyd, and he will be home to-morrow night! I came to bring it to
you."
He takes it from his pocket and hands it to her, but her fingers
tremble, and no joy lights up her pale face. Eugene is so sincerely
sorry that he holds himself in thorough contempt for his part in the
early history of the affair, and he is very angry as well.
"Now," he says, "I am going away, and I shall not be home to luncheon,
but I will meet you at the Latimers'. If Marcia dares to make another
comment, it will be the worse for her, that's all. My poor child, are
you going to keep that dreary face and those despairing eyes for Floyd
to see?"
He has a very strong inclination to take her in his arms and shower
tenderness upon her; but if he has been drifting that way for the past
week, he is rudely awakened now. He looks at her helplessly. If she
would only cry; the girls he has seen have been ready enough with their
tears.
"Yes, you must go," she says, wearily. "Thank you for the letter, for
_all_." Then she walks slowly out of the room.