“A cup of tea.  I didn’t mention her illness because I wasn’t aware of it.  I haven’t had the pleasure of seeing Madame Blanche since we parted in the dining-room last night.”

“Indeed!” said Mollie, stirring her chocolate slowly.

“And what’s more,” pursued the master of the house, “I don’t care if I never see her again.”

“Dear me, guardy!  Strong language, isn’t it?”

“It is truthful language, Mollie.  Sleeping on a thing sometimes alters its complexion materially.  Last evening I concluded to let things blow over and keep up appearances before the world.  This morning I am resolved to let the world go hang, and teach one of the conspirators a lesson she won’t forget in a hurry.”

Mollie looked alarmed.

“Not a divorce, guardy?  Surely not the public scandal of a divorce?  All must come out then.”

“Not quite a divorce,” Mr. Walraven said, coolly; “its next-door neighbor.  A quiet, gentlemanly, and lady-like separation.”

“Guardy Walraven,” said Miss Dane, solemnly, “don’t do anything rash.”

“I don’t intend to.  I’ve thought the matter well over.  Didn’t get a wink of sleep last night for it.  We won’t break our hearts”—­with a cynical sneer—­“myself nor my gentle Blanche.  I don’t know why we married, exactly.  Certainly not for love, and we will part without a pang.”

“Speak for yourself, guardy.  I dare say Blanche will be frantic.”

“Frantic at leaving a house on Fifth Avenue—­frantic at leaving you mistress in her place—­frantic that she can’t be my blooming young widow—­frantic at all that, I grant you.”

“Guardy, don’t be dreadful,” adjured Mollie, pathetically.  “If I can forgive Blanche, I’m sure you may.”

“No, Mollie, I can not.  She has deceived me basely, wickedly.  More—­I dare not.”

“Dare not.  Now, Mr. Walraven—­”

“Hear me out, Mollie.  A woman who would concoct such a villainous plot would stop at nothing.  Abduction would be followed by murder.  I would not trust her from henceforth on her Bible oath.  My life is not safe while she remains in this house.”

“Guardy! guardy! how can you say such horrible things?  Commit murder?  You know very well she would not dare.”

“Wives dare it every week if the public journals speak the truth.  I tell you I would not trust her.  There is Guy Oleander, a toxicologist by profession—­what more easy than for him to supply her with some subtle drug, and call it catalepsy, a congestion, a disease of the heart?  I tell you, Mollie, after finding them out, my life would not be worth a fillip in their hands.  I could as easily live with a female gorilla as with Blanche Oleander.”

“Well,” said Mollie, looking a little startled, “if you feel like that, of course—­When do you propose—­”

She paused.

“I shall lose no time.  I shall see Mrs. Walraven immediately after breakfast.”