“You weren’t going to miss me,” she laughed.  “I had no intention of letting you, but the afternoon was too utterly delectable to stay indoors, so I waylaid you here.”  Then after a moment, as she stepped lightly through the car door which he had opened, she added delightedly, “Barola!  And I was just crying for some music.  Did you hear my wails from the Flatiron building down?”

“I was too busy crying to see you,” he laughed back.  “My agonized sobs drowned the traffic whistles.”

As the car turned, he held out the box, which proclaimed its contents, as violet boxes always do.  A man may have a bottle of rum or a chest of stolen gold wrapped up so it looks as innocent as a pair of socks, but no swain bearing violets can deceive the eye of the most casual observer.  Marcia was not deceived.

“Violets!” she exclaimed.  “Do you mean they are for me?”

“Of course,” he answered, and, for no reason at all, colored like a schoolboy.

Marcia opened the box and sat gazing at the flowers.

Into her face came a sudden gravity and the delicate features seemed almost sad.  She said, “Thank you,” in a low voice and continued to gaze at her gift.  Then she buried her face in their fragrance and for a moment held it there.  When she raised it to him again it was smiling, though still gravely.

“They are lovely,” she told him.  “I’m glad you thought of them.”

“You seemed almost sad,” Paul spoke with a voice of deep solicitude.  “Did I make a mistake?  Do violets stand for something you don’t want to be reminded of?”

She shook her head and laughed, and this time with the old note of merriment.

“Violets stand for everything that’s nice,” she assured him.  “It was just that—­I hardly know—­just that it suddenly occurred to me how long a time it’s been since anyone gave me flowers.”

“Someone is going to—­often,” the words came quickly, and impulsively he laid his hand over hers for just a moment.

“Do you know, I have the instincts of a sybarite?” she informed him.  “When I go to sleep tonight, I shall put these violets near the head of my bed, and whenever I wake up I’ll smell them.”

* * * * *

Despite his strong defensive preparations and his almost clairvoyant foresight, in Hamilton Burton an insidious change was taking place and the brain which so astutely cooerdinated many things was totally unconscious of its own transitions.  Egotism had made him.  A self-faith which took no account of difficulties, had carried him to the apex of his ambitions.  Now it was blinding him with its own brilliance.  Hamilton Burton was drunk, drunk to the core of his soul, with the strong intoxicant of self-confidence.  He looked on life through a mirror—­and saw only himself.

So, while he intrenched and safeguarded his destiny, he failed to realize that he was being lulled into a reckless faith in the star he believed shone over him and for him.  He did not pause to reflect that the wolf, gaunt and powerful, who by the courage in his shaggy breast and the strength of his fanged jaws, runs unchallenged at the pack head, may change.