“Lost in speechless admiration, no doubt.  That gentleman is the celebrated Doctor Oleander, own cousin to the fair Blanche.”

The gentleman in question certainly was staring, but his staring was interrupted at this moment by a general uprising and retreat to the drawing-room.  Mr. Ingelow, on whose arm she leaned, led her to the piano at once.

“You sing, I know—­Mrs. Walraven has told me.  Pray favor us with one song before some less gifted performer secures this vacant seat.”

“What shall it be?” Mollie asked, running her white fingers over the keys.

“Whatever you please—­whatever you like best.  I shall be sure to like it.”

Mollie sung brilliantly, and sung her best now.  There was dead silence; no one had expected such a glorious voice as this.  Hugh Ingelow’s rapt face showed what he felt as Mollie rose.

“Miss Dane ought to go upon the stage; she would make her fortune,” said a deep voice at her elbow.

She turned sharply round and met the dark, sinister eyes and pale face of Dr. Oleander.

“Miss Dane forgets me,” he said, with a low bow, “among so many presentations.  Will you kindly reintroduce me, Mr. Ingelow?”

Mr. Ingelow obeyed with no very good grace; the sparkling, blue-eyed coquette had made wild work with his artist heart already.

“Mrs. Walraven desired me to bring you to her for a moment,” the suave doctor said, offering his arm.  “May I have the honor?”

Mr. Ingelow’s eyes flashed angrily, and Mollie, seeing it, and being a born coquette, took the proffered arm at once.

It was the merest trifle grandmamma wanted, but it served the doctor’s turn—­he had got the beauty of the evening, and he meant to keep her.

Mollie listened to his endless flow of complimentary small-talk just as long as she chose, and then glided coolly away to flirt with a third adorer, the eminent young lawyer, Mr. Joseph Sardonyx.

Mollie hovered between those three the livelong evening; now it was the handsome artist, now the polished doctor, now the witty, satirical lawyer, flirting in the most unpardonable manner.

Even Mr. Walraven was a little shocked, and undertook, in the course of the evening, to expostulate.

“Flirting is all very well, Mollie,” he said, “but it really mustn’t be carried too far.  People are beginning to make remarks.”

“Are they?” said Mollie; “about which of us, pray? for really and truly, guardy, you have been flirting the worst of the two.”

“Nonsense, Mollie!  You mean Miss Oleander, I suppose?  That is no flirtation.”

“Indeed! then it is worse—­it is serious?”

“Yes, if asking her to marry me be serious.  And she has said yes, Mollie.”

Miss Dane looked at him compassionately.

“You poor, unfortunate guardy!  And you are really going to marry Blanche Oleander!  Well, one comfort is, you will be ready to blow your brains out six months after; and serve you right, too!  Don’t let us talk about it to-night.  I am sorry for you, and if you have any sense left you will soon be sorry for yourself.  Here comes Doctor Oleander, and I mean to be as fascinating as I know how, just to drive the other two to the verge of madness.”