To tell the truth, he was sadly in need of money.  It was fortunate that his old friend, Mr. Harrison, Margie’s dead father, had taken it into his head to plight his daughter’s troth to him while she was yet a child.  Mr. Harrison had been an eccentric man; and from the fact that in many points of religious belief he and Mr. Paul Linmere agreed, (for both were miserable skeptics,) he valued him above all other men, and thought his daughter’s happiness would be secured by the union he had planned.

Linmere had been abroad several years, and had led a very reckless, dissipated life.  Luxurious by nature, lacking in moral rectitude, and having wealth at his command, he indulged himself unrestrained; and when at last he left the gay French capital and returned to America, his whole fortune, with exception of a few thousands, was dissipated.  So he needed a rich wife sorely, and was not disposed to defer his happiness.

He met Margie with empressement, and bowed his tall head to kiss the white hand she extended to him.  She drew it away coldly—­something about the man made her shrink from him.

“I am so happy to meet you again.  Margie, and after ten years of separation!  I have thought so much and so often of you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Linmere.”

“Will you not call me Paul?” he asked, in a subdued voice, letting his dangerous eyes, full of light and softness, rest on her.

An expression of haughty surprise swept her face.  She drew back a pace.

“I am not accustomed to address gentlemen—­mere acquaintances—­by their Christian names, sir.”

“But in this case, Margie?  Surely the relations existing between us will admit of such a familiarity,” he said, seating himself, while she remained standing coldly near.

“There are no relations existing between us at present, Mr. Linmere,” she answered, haughtily; “and if, in obedience to the wishes of the dead, we should ever become connected in name, I beg leave to assure you in the beginning that you will always be Mr. Linmere to me.”

A flush of anger mounted to his cheek; he set his teeth, but outwardly he was calm and subdued.  Anger, just at present, was impolitic.

“I hope to win your love, Margie; I trust I shall,” he answered, sadly enough to have aroused almost any woman’s pity; but some subtle instinct told Margie he was false to the core.

But all through the evening he was affable and complaisant and forbearing.  She made no attempt to conceal her dislike of him.  Concealments were not familiar to Margie’s nature.  She was frank and open as the day.

Mr. Linmere’s fascinations were many and varied.  He had a great deal of adaptation, and made himself agreeable to every one.  He had traveled extensively, was a close observer, and had a retentive memory.  Mr. Trevlyn was charmed with him.  So was Alexandrine Lee, a friend of Margie’s, a rival belle, who accidentally (?) dropped in to spend the evening.