made for each other. He no doubt married Miss
St. Vincent in the flush of some chivalrous feeling, but she will
always be too childish to understand such a man. There will remain just
so many years between them."

"And _I_ think she will grow up to a perfect wifehood. She is not yet
eighteen."

"And I cannot understand how a man having a chance to win Madame
Lepelletier would not urge it to the uttermost."

Mrs. Latimer is set down at her own door, but keeps her confident faith
as she talks matters over with John.

"Floyd Grandon is about the one level-headed man out of a thousand," he
says, decisively. "Whether it is that he cannot be fascinated with
womenkind or holds some resentment concerning the past, I am not sure,
but he is able to sun himself in the dazzle of Madame Lepelletier's
charms with the most perfect friendly indifference that I ever saw. If
he were not, she might prove dangerous to the peace of mind of the
young wife, who is simply delightful, but who doesn't know any more
about love than the sweetest rosebud in the garden."

"O John! now your penetration is at fault," laughs the wife; "she
unconsciously adores her husband."

"Well, I said she didn't _know_ about it, and she does not. The
awakening will have to come."

Violet meanwhile begins to anticipate the day at Mrs. Latimer's as much
as she dreads that at madame's. Cecil is surprised, indignant.

"You don't stay with me now," she says, her voice and her small body
swelling with emotion. "You let Jane put me to bed, and you don't tell
me any stories."

"But after Aunt Gertrude is married we shall stay at home, and there
will be stories and stories. And you _might_ like to go to Denise," she
suggests, with admirable art. "Briggs could drive you in the pony
carriage."

The temptation is too great. She has winked rather hard to make tears
come, and now she ungratefully winks them away again and dances for
joy.

It is almost noon when they reach the Latimers'. Their house is about
as large as madame's, but it has a greater air of carelessness, of
disorder in its most charming estate. John Latimer lives all over it,
and there are books and papers everywhere, and _bric-a-brac_ in all the
corners. The redwood mantel in the sitting-room is shelved nearly up to
the ceiling, and tiled around the grate, and is just one picture of
beauty. The easy-chairs are around the fire, and softest rugs are laid
for your feet. Violet sits down in the glow a