Eugene Mallard flung down the cigar which he had just lighted as soon as the girls passed, and made his way from the place.

He resisted the impulse to turn fiercely upon them and demand how they dared to speak of his young wife in that manner. It required all his strength of will to keep down his anger.

He passed the two girls on the path a moment later, and though they gave a start, they believed that he had not heard their remarks, for he did not betray his anger in his face.

Eugene looked about for his wife. His eyes wandered sharply around as he threaded his way among the dancers. But Ida was not visible.

Crossing the lawn, he encountered Vivian Deane and Captain Drury. She was looking her sweetest in pale-blue summer silk half veiled by white lace and pink rosebuds.

He would have passed them by, with a few forced words of pleasantry, but Vivian would not have it so.

"You have not danced once this afternoon, Eugene," she said; "and a host who does his duty should figure in some of the waltzes at least. Are you looking for a partner now? Shall I find you one?"

"No; thanks, Vivian," he answered. "I am looking for my—my wife. Do you know where she is?"

"Yes," returned Vivian. "I saw her a moment ago. Let me see where it was. Oh, yes; I remember—down by the clump of oaks. She and Mr. Hollis had danced four consecutive dances together, and were resting. By the way," she added, with a gay little laugh, and something like a pout on her pretty red lips, "you must tell her not to monopolize Mr. Hollis, Eugene. It is too bad of her. It does not give a single girl a fair chance, you know."

Vivian moved away with the captain after giving him that parting shot, and Eugene was not rendered much easier by her last words, although they were apparently gayly and carelessly spoken.

He walked hurriedly to the further end of the grounds, and there, under a huge oak-tree, he caught a glimpse of a filmy white dress.

Advancing, he saw his wife sitting there, with Arthur Hollis beside her.

Neither saw him. Ida's eyes were fixed upon a crimson rose she was recklessly plucking to pieces. She seemed to be hardly heeding her companion's words.

Arthur was leaning back against the oak-tree, looking down at the dark, curly head, and he was speaking earnestly in a tone hardly above a whisper.

A handsome couple they looked, and surely like nothing so much as lovers.

Eugene realized this, and a feeling of wrath took possession of him. He did not love her; in fact, there were times when he told himself that he hated her with the bitterest kind of hatred; but she bore his name, and she must not be allowed to set the tongues of gossipers wagging.

Eugene knew that she did not mean anything by receiving the attentions of handsome Arthur Hollis, his friend. She was but a young girl, after all, and she thoughtlessly allowed herself to drift into this most wretched flirtation.

His thoughts went no deeper, no further than that; but that was far enough, and for the sake of her good name, this thoughtless, reckless nonsense must be stopped. He trusted her implicitly, yet he felt a mad, unreasonable rage against the two sitting there.

It was well his will was so strong and his temper so well under control, or he could not have advanced as calmly as he did.

Ida was dressed in white. It struck him that she looked very beautiful. But just then her beauty seemed to exasperate and harden her husband toward her.

Ida glanced up, and seeing him, started.

Arthur Hollis appeared a little uncomfortable, but after the first sharp glance, Eugene Mallard did not look at him, feeling that he could not trust himself to do so. He addressed his wife, looking at her with a dark frown on his face.

"Vivian told me you were here," he began. "Are you going to dance the next set?"

Her face flushed, her hands trembled. Was he, her husband, coming to ask her to dance with him? His next words showed her how mad she had been to cherish such a hope.

"I was going to ask Vivian to dance," he said. "I see there are three couples standing over there ready to dance. It will require one more couple to fill up the set."

With something like haughty pride, she raised her dark head.

"I shall not dance," said Ida, in a cold, bitter voice. "I am tired."

Arthur Hollis had the grace to laughingly excuse himself. He had been enjoying his tÊte-À-tÊte, and the sudden appearance of her husband on the scene was not welcome. Besides, he had noticed that there was something in Eugene Mallard's face which he did not like.

Arthur Hollis did not speak, and Eugene Mallard waited until he was well out of hearing. The silence lasted so long that Ida broke it by petulantly saying:

"As I shall not dance this set, would it not be as well for you to find some one else? The music is just starting."

He did not appear to listen to the remark. His eyes were riveted on the little satin programme, suspended by a little silver cord at her belt, and he saw the initials of Arthur Hollis written opposite six or eight dances.

His face grew hard, stern, and rigid. Had he been blind not to have noticed what was going on, when it was so plainly apparent to every one else?

"I should like to ask something of you," he said, pointing to the card. "I want you to promise me that you will not dance any more with Arthur Hollis."

With a feeling of mingled rage and pain he saw that Ida turned first pale then scarlet. She drew herself up to her full height and looked at him with a hauteur which she never knew she possessed.

"May I ask why you make such a request?" she asked, sharply.

"For to-day let it be enough that I make the request. Will you promise me?"

All the spirit that Ida possessed was up in arms.

"Certainly not," Ida responded. "I would not dream of breaking an engagement for no reason whatever."

There was a pause, filled only by the strains of distant music.

Paler than usual and with a stern look overspreading his face, Eugene Mallard waited for his wife to continue, as she seemed to have something more to say.

"If you objected to your friend dancing with me, you—you should have made the request before the engagements were made."

He looked at her angrily, his fair, handsome face flushing.

"A half dozen engagements should not have been made," he returned. "People will certainly comment upon it. They are already whispering of my friend's attention to you."

A strange look which he could not analyze crossed the beautiful face.

"You must stop this gossip," he went on, "or I will take measures to do so. I have made a request of you, and shown you why I made it. Will you grant it—for your own sake?"

"I refuse!" she repeated. "I am sorry that you do not think me capable of protecting my own name—and yours."

With something like a muttered imprecation on his lips, he turned on his heel, and strode rapidly from her side.

"Fool that I was!" he muttered, clinching his hands together. "To save her honor I married her. But what does she care for my honor?"

The breech between them grew wider than ever now.

Ida danced with Arthur Hollis, and the tongues of the gossips wagged. If Eugene Mallard heard, he paid no heed. Strange thoughts were passing through his mind.

All unmindful of what Eugene Mallard had to say to his wife, Arthur Hollis danced with her, and hovered more closely than ever by her side.

He was growing desperate. His stay was drawing to a close. He meant to make the most of the few hours of sunshine and happiness before he turned his back on all that made life worth the living.

At the finish of one of the dances a messenger-boy was seen approaching with a telegram.

"For Mr. Arthur Hollis," he called.

Mechanically Arthur held out his hand. It was a dispatch requiring his immediate presence in Baltimore to attend to some urgent business.

"Have you bad news?" asked Ida, turning to him; for she saw his face had grown very pale.

"Yes—no," he answered, incoherently, a troubled look coming into his eyes. "I must go away." He did not look at her as he uttered the words. "I must go within the hour," he said, huskily. "Come down by the brook where we have passed so many happy hours. I should like to say good-bye to you there."

For a moment she hesitated; then seeing the sorrowful look on his face, she quietly allowed him to lead her down the path toward the brook.

In silence they walked through the sunshine, heedless that there were two pairs of eyes following them—Vivian Deane's from one part of the grounds, and Eugene Mallard's from another.

Vivian turned and followed them. That was the beginning of the tragedy that darkened three lives.