Madame hissed out the words between a set of spiteful, false teeth, and glared, as women do glare, upon the gray-eyed Blanche.  And Carl listened, and laughed sardonically.

“A woman without a heart.  So much the better, mother; the less heart the more head; and I like your clever, dashing women, who are big and buxom, and able to take care of themselves.  Don’t forget, mother mine, I haven’t proposed to the sparkling Blanche, and I don’t think I shall—­to-night.  You wouldn’t have me fall at the feet of those mealy-winged moths fluttering around us, with heads softer than their poor little hearts—­you wouldn’t, I hope?”

With which Mr. Walraven went straight back to Miss Oleander and asked her to dance the lancers.

Miss Oleander, turning with ineffable calm from a bevy of rose-robed and white-robed young ladies, said, “Yes,” as if Mr. Walraven was no more than any other man, and stood up to take his arm.

But there is many a slip.  Miss Oleander and Mr. Walraven never danced that particular set, for just then there came a ring at the door-bell so pealing and imperious that it sounded sharply even through the noisy ball-room.

“The Marble Guest, surely,” Blanche said, “and very determined to be heard.”

Before the words were well uttered there was a sound of an altercation in the hall—­one of the tall footmen pathetically protesting, and a shrill female voice refusing to listen to those plaintive protests.  Then there suddenly fell peace.

“After a storm there cometh a calm,” Mr. Walraven said.  “Miss Oleander, shall we move on?  Well, Johnson, what is it?”

For Johnson, the taller of the two tall footmen, stood before them gazing beseechingly at his master.

“It’s a woman, sir, all wet and dirty, and horrid to look at.  She says she will see you, and there she stands, and Wilson nor me we can’t do nothing with her.  If you don’t come she says she’ll walk up here and make you come.  Them,” said Johnson, plaintively, “were her own language.”

Blanche Oleander, gazing up at her companion’s face, saw it changing to a startled, dusky white.

“Some beggar—­some troublesome tramp, I dare say.”  But he dropped her arm abruptly as he said it.  “Excuse me a moment, Miss Oleander.  I had better see her to prevent noise.  Now, then, Johnson.”

Mr. Johnson led the way down a grand, sweeping staircase, rich in gilding and carving, through a paved and vaulted hall, and out into a lofty vestibule.

There a woman stood, dripping wet and wretchedly clad, as miserable-looking a creature as ever walked the bad city streets.  The flare of the gas-jets shone full upon her—­upon a haggard face lighted up with two blazing eyes.

“For God’s sake!  Miriam!”

Carl Walraven started back, as if struck by an iron hand.  The woman took a step forward and confronted him.

“Yes, Carl Walraven—­Miriam!  You did well to come at once.  I have something to say to you.  Shall I say it here?”