“Is it possible that proud old man has really fallen seriously in love with that yellow-haired, flighty child?” asked Mrs. Carl Walraven in angry surprise.  “He was attentive at Washington, certainly; but I fancied his absurd old eyes were only caught for the moment.  If it should prove serious, what a thing it will be for her! and these antediluvians, in their dotage, will do such ridiculous things.  My Lady Trajenna!  Detestable little minx!  I should like to poison her!”

Miss Dane carried on her flirtations, despite her engagement, with her three more youthful admirers.

Now and then Sir Roger, looking on with doting, but disapproving eyes, ventured on a feeble remonstrance.

“It is unfair to yourself and unfair to me, my darling,” he said.  “Every smile you bestow upon them is a stab to me.  Do let me speak to Mr. Walraven, and end it at once.”

But still Mollie refused to consent.

“No, no, Sir Roger; let me have my own way a little longer.  There is no need of your being jealous.  I don’t care a straw for the three of them.  Only it is such fun.  Wait a little longer.”

Of course the fair-haired despot had her way.

The second week of their return Mr. and Mrs. Walraven were “at home” to their friends, and once more the spacious halls and stair-ways were ablaze with illumination, and the long ranges of rooms, opening one into another, were radiant with light, and flowers, and music, and brilliant ladies.

Mrs. Walraven, superb in her bridal robes, stood beside her husband, receiving their guests.  And Miss Mollie Dane, in shimmering silk, that blushed as she walked, and clusters of water-lilies drooping from her tinseled curls, was as lovely as Venus rising from the sea-foam.

Here, there, everywhere, she flashed like a gleam of light; waltzing with the dreamy-eyed artist, Hugh Ingelow, hanging on the arm of Dr. Oleander, chattering like a magpie with Lawyer Sardonyx, and anon laughing at all three with Sir Roger Trajenna.

You might as well have tried to regulate the vagaries of a comet—­as well guess from what quarter the fickle wind would next blow.

“Women are all puzzles,” said Dr. Oleander, in quiet despair to Mrs. Walraven.  “That is a truism long and tried; but, by Jove!  Miss Mollie Dane puts the toppers on the lot.  I never met with such a bewildering sprite.”

“Odious, artful creature!” hissed the bride of Carl Walraven.  “It is all her crafty scheming to attract the attention of that hoary-headed simpleton, Sir Roger Trajenna.  If you are in love with her, Guy (and how you can is a mystery to me), why don’t you propose at once?”

“Because I am afraid, madame.”

“Afraid!” scornfully—­“afraid of a goosey girl of seventeen!  I never took you for a born idiot before, Guy Oleander.”

“Thanks, my fair relative!  But it is quite as disagreeable to be refused by a ‘goosey girl of seventeen’ as by a young lady of seven-and-twenty.  Your age, my dear Blanche, is it not?”