It was scarcely possible, without giving offense to some one or other of the party, to arrange beforehand who was to escort whom.  One of the men must inevitably take charge of two of the ladies; fate must determine which!  Cuthbert Aston—­a youth unaccustomed to deny himself any gratification upon which he had set his mind—­had probably resolved that it would not be he!  But fortune is proverbially fickle.  The train was crowded and seats were at a discount.  It was impossible for all five to travel together.  Violet—­with a woman’s perversity, perhaps, because of Cuthbert’s evident intention, or, it may be, to show a deliberate preference for Murray—­contrived that the latter should accompany herself.  The other cavalier was therefore compelled, with as good grace as he could manage, to find places in another compartment for himself and the two very uninteresting maidens thus thrust upon him.  No wonder he was nettled!  Like a spoiled boy he determined to leave Violet to herself—­or rather to her chosen escort—­for the rest of the evening.  Glum as an owl, he took his place in the theater between the two girls, keeping himself severely aloof from the fickle lady of his dreams.  She, on the contrary, stirred by the pleasurable excitement of her surroundings, and possibly not displeased by so evident a proof of Cuthhert’s appreciation of her, gave herself wholly to the enjoyment of the hour.

Bernard, on his part, could not fail to be struck by the preference manifested in his regard; he, too, was consequently in high spirits.  No better companion—­apart from his personal attraction for her—­could have been allotted to him for such an occasion.  Violet’s sunny presence, her clever criticisms of the acting and singing—­which he had learned of old to expect—­promised for him a thoroughly enjoyable evening.  His heart took courage; was it possible that this charming girl really preferred him—­a man who had to make his way in the world, and work hard to provide a home for her such as befitted her hopes and ambitions—­to this rich man’s only son, who had it in his power to give her at once wealth, position, and admiration?

The first act was over.  They both had been charmed with what they had seen and heard, and it was pleasurable to compare impressions and to anticipate further gratifying experiences.  The theater was warm, and Violet unwound from her neck a lace scarf which she had been wearing.  Pinned to the bosom of her pretty mauve dress was a tiny spray of dull green leaves.

“What have you there?” he asked all unthinkingly.

But before she could answer he knew, and a wave of mingled remorse, shame, and self-condemnation swept over his soul.

“What is it?  Why, shamrock, of course!”

“Shamrock!” was all he could falter lamely in reply.

“Yes, shamrock.  Queen Alexandra set the fashion, you know.  Every one who wants to do the correct thing wears shamrock today.  But of course you are a Scotchman; you probably have no idea what day it is!  So I don’t mind instructing you.  It’s St. Patrick’s Day.”