For a time it was mighty amusing to her.  To shop all morning, make the costliest purchases; to drive on the avenue or in the Park of an afternoon with the latest and most stylish turnout, in the handsomest toilet; to give the finest dinners; to spend the evening in the most expensive box; to cause men to open their eyes with admiration, and to make women grave with envy:  all this gave her delight for a time—­so much delight that she could not forego it even for her husband.  Norman was so occupied of late that he could not go about with her as much as he had done.  His father’s health had failed, and then he had died, throwing all the business on Norman.

Ferdy Wickersham had returned home from abroad not long before—­alone.  Rumor had connected his name while abroad with some woman—­an unknown and very pretty woman had “travelled with him.”  Ferdy, being rallied by his friends about it, shook his head.  “Must have been some one else.”  Grinnell Rhodes, who had met him, said she declared herself his wife.  Ferdy’s denial was most conclusive—­he simply laughed.

To Mrs. Wentworth he had told a convincing tale.  It was a slander.  Norman was against him, he knew, but she, at least, would believe he had been maligned.

Wickersham had waited for such a time in the affairs of Mrs. Wentworth.  He had watched for it; striven to bring it about in many almost imperceptible ways; had tendered her sympathy; had been ready with help as she needed it; till he began to believe that he was making some impression.  It was, of all the games he played, the dearest just now to his heart.  It had a double zest.  It had appeared to the world that Norman Wentworth had defeated him.  He had always defeated him—­first as a boy, then at college, and later when he had borne off the prize for which Ferdy had really striven.  Ferdy would now show who was the real victor.  If Louise Caldwell had passed him by for Norman Wentworth, he would prove that he still possessed her heart.

It was not long, therefore, before society found a delightful topic of conversation,—­that silken-clad portion of society which usually deals with such topics,—­the increasing intimacy between Ferdy Wickersham and Mrs. Wentworth.

Tales were told of late visits; of strolls in the dusk of evenings on unfrequented streets; of little suppers after the opera; of all the small things that deviltry can suggest and malignity distort.  Wickersham cared little for having his name associated with that of any one, and he was certainly not going to be more careful for another’s name than for his own.  He had grown more reckless since his return, but it had not injured him with his set.  It flattered his pride to be credited with the conquest of so cold and unapproachable a Diana as Louise Wentworth.