whole world what does he care? There is
no one left to fret them in household ways, for he fancies he has seen
signs of softening in his mother, and she is having new interests in
life, with her daughters well married. There is only Eugene to feel
really anxious about.

The carriages are driving up the avenue and there is a flutter through
the hall. Floyd goes up-stairs presently and finds Violet in his room
waiting for the finishing touches to be added to Cecil's attire. She
turns quickly, and a soft flush makes her bewitching, radiant.

"How do you like me?" she asks, in her innocent simplicity.

She is in pure white, his favorite attire for her, but the wraith-like
laces draping her lend her a different air from anything he has seen
before. The rose-leaf tint in her cheek, her lovely dimpled mouth, the
eyes that look browner and more like velvet than ever, and the shining
hair give her a glamour of sweetness and youth that stirs his heart to
its very depths.

"Like you?" he echoes; "you are beautiful, bewitching!"

She comes a little nearer. His commendation makes her extremely happy.
He holds out both hands, and she places hers in them, and kisses her on
the forehead; he has fallen so much into the habit that he does it
unthinkingly.

"Floyd," says Mrs. Grandon, from the hall, "you certainly ought to go
down."

"I am all ready," cries Cecil, who flies out, beautiful as a fairy, in
a shimmer of white and pale blue, her waving hair like a shower of
gold.

Violet is a good deal frightened at first, although she resolutely
forces herself to a point of bravery. She has never been the central
figure before, and she has a consciousness that all eyes are turned
upon her, and that she hardly has a right to the use of her true name
while Mr. Grandon's stately mother is present. Laura is resplendent in
silk and lace,--she never affects any _ingenue_ style,--and madame is
a dazzle in black and gold, her Parisian dress of lace a marvel of
clinging beauty, and her Marechal Niel roses superb. She has been
mistress and head for several days, but now she is simply the guest,
and none better than she knows how to grace the position.

Outside there is a sea of bewildering melody, that pulses on the air in
rhythmic waves. The French horns blow out their soft, sweet gales, like
birds at early morn, the flutes whistle fine and clear, and the
violins, with their tremulous, eager sweetness, seem dripping amber;
viols and horns