ness that comes and goes over his face, the dreamy smile, the
far light in his eyes, as if his brain was richly satisfied with some
vision. This is love, she thinks, exultantly. Mr. and Mrs. Latimer must
have had just this blessed experience, but no other marriage, not even
Gertrude's, comes up to her ideal. And to think that hundreds must go
through the world without this greatest, finest of all joys. She pities
them, she pities herself profoundly. There are moments when it seems as
if she must throw herself at her husband's feet and tell him that she
is famishing for this divine food. And yet in their brief seasons
together she grows cold, distant, afraid. She cannot even feel as she
did when her ankle was hurt and he so tenderly indulgent. She esteemed
that as love, but she knows better now, sad, sad wisdom!

Yet there is something fascinating in this double life she leads. It
must be what people take when their great hopes are gone. The
diversions of society, the threads of others' lives, the curious,
dangerous study of the feelings and emotions of those about her. Only a
year ago she was such an ignorant little body, now she is so wise, and
she sighs over it.

The days are crowded full of enjoyment. Mrs. Latimer gives the
loveliest tea and the most enchanting _musicale_ with amateurs. Violet
is asked to play, and proposes that Eugene and Miss Murray distinguish
themselves in a duet from "Don Pasquale," which they sing admirably.
Pauline Murray has a soprano voice, with brilliant execution.

"I do believe," exclaims Mrs. Latimer, studying Violet, "that you will
equal madame as a society woman. I am not sure that I shall admire the
cultivated pansy as much as the shy, sweet wood violet, but perhaps it
is better. We women with distinguished husbands must keep pace in
attractiveness, or the world will take them from us in its sweeping
admiration."

"I never did have such a lovely time!" Pauline Murray says, after the
_musicale_. "And you know I never should have thought of Robin Adair
for an _encore_ if it had not been for Eugene." She has come to the
young man's Christian name. "Wasn't it a perfect success? I never sang
it so well in my life. If papa could have heard it!" And she hums over
a stanza,--

"After the ball was o'er
What made my heart so sore--"

Some tears fill Violet's eyes and she turns away. Then, lest her
emotion shall make her appear ungracious, she praises liberally.

Days and nights