“Be it so!  You never loved me less than I did you!  You can not hate me more than I hate you!  But, for all that, I won’t go!”

“You shall go—­and that within this week!”

“I tell you I won’t!  I dare you!  Do your worst!”

“Do you, madame?  Then, by Heaven, I accept your challenge!  The law of divorce shall set me free from the vilest wife man ever was cursed with!”

She gave a gasping cry, her face ghastly white.

“Carl Walraven, you would not dare!”

“Would I not?” with a harsh laugh.  “We shall see.  You don’t know what Carl Walraven is capable of yet, I see.”

“Wait! wait! wait!” Blanche screamed after him, in mortal terror.  “Tell me what you came here to propose.”

“A separation, madame—­quietly, without éclat or public scandal.  Accept or refuse, as you please.”

“What are your terms?” sullenly.

“More liberal than you deserve.  An annuity larger than anything you ever had before you married me, a house up the Hudson, and your promise never to return to New York.  With my death, the annuity will cease, and you will be penniless.  I don’t choose to be put out of the way by you or your poisoning cousin.”

Blanche Walraven’s eyes flashed fury.

“You are a merciless, iron-hearted man, Carl Walraven, and I hate you!  I close with your terms, because I can not help myself; but I’ll have revenge yet!”

“And the very first attempt you make,” said Mr. Walraven, coolly, “I’ll hand you over to the law as I would the commonest vagrant that prowls the streets.  Don’t think to intimidate me, my lady, with your tragedy airs and fiery glances.  Mr. Sardonyx will wait upon you this afternoon.  If you can make it convenient to leave to-morrow, you will very much oblige me.”

His last words were almost lost.  Mrs. Walraven, with a hysterical scream, had fallen back among the pillows in strong convulsions.  He just stopped to give one backward glance of pitiless loathing, then rang for her maid and left the room.

And so parted the ill-assorted husband and wife to meet no more.  So ended one mercenary marriage.

Carl Walraven went down-stairs, and found Mollie uneasily awaiting him.

“It’s all settled, Mollie,” he said.  “You are the little mistress of the house from this day forward, until”—­looking at her earnestly—­“you get married.”

Mollie reddened and shook her head.

“I shall never get married, guardy.”

“No?  Not even to Hugh Ingelow?”

“Least of all to Hugh Ingelow.  Don’t let us talk about it, guardy.  What did Mrs. Walraven say?”

“More than I care to repeat, Cricket.  We won’t talk about Mrs. Walraven, either.”

“But, guardy, are you really going to send her away?”

“I really and truly am.  She goes to-morrow.  Now, Mollie Dane, there’s no need for you to wear that pleading face.  She goes—­that’s flat!  I wouldn’t live in the same house with her now for a kingdom.  If you say another word about it we’ll quarrel.”