“You dear old thing!  You wouldn’t like to lose your hateful little tom-boy, would you?  Well, you shan’t, either.  I only meant to scare you that time.  You’ll ask me no more nasty questions, and I’ll stay and be your Cricket the same as ever, and we’ll try and forget the little episode of the past two weeks.  And as for you, Sir Roger, don’t you do anything rash.  Just think things over, and make sure you’re perfectly satisfied, before you have anything to do with me, for I don’t intend to explain any more than I have explained.  I’m a good-for-nothing, giddy little moth, I know; but I don’t really want to deceive anybody.  No; don’t speak on impulse, dear Sir Roger.  Take a week or two, and think about it.”

She kissed her hand coquettishly to the two gentlemen, and tripped out of the room.

And there they sat, looking at each other, altogether bewildered and dazed, and altogether more infatuated about her than ever.

Society was electrified at finding Miss Dane back, and looked eagerly for the sequel to this little romance.  They got it from Mr. Walraven.

Mr. Walraven, bland as oil, told them his ward had received on her bridal night a summons to the bedside of a dying and very near relative.  Miss Dane, ever impulsive and eccentric, had gone.  She had remained with the dying relative for a fortnight, and merely for mischief—­no need to tell them how mischievous his ward was—­had kept the whole matter a secret.  It was very provoking, certainly, but was just like provoking Mollie Dane.

Mr. Walraven related this little fable smiling sweetly, and with excellent grace.  But society took the story for what it was worth, and shook its head portentously over Miss Dane and her mysteries.

Nobody knew who she was, where she came from, or what relation she bore to Mr. Walraven, and nobody believed Mr. Walraven and his little romance.

But as Mesdames Walraven, mother and wife, countenanced the extraordinary creature with the flighty way and amber curls, and as she was the ward of a millionaire, why, society smiled graciously, and welcomed Mollie back with charming sweetness.

A fortnight passed—­the fortnight of probation she had given Sir Roger.  There was a grand dinner-party at some commercial nabob’s up the avenue, and all the Walraven family were there.  There, too, was the Welsh baronet, stately and grand-seigneur-like as ever; there were Dr. Oleander, Lawyer Sardonyx, Hugh Ingelow, and the little witch who had thrown her wicked sorceries over them, brighter, more sparkling, more lovely than ever.

And at the dinner-party Mollie was destined to receive a shock; for, just before they paired off to the dining-room, there entered a late guest, announced as the “Reverend Mr. Rashleigh,” and, looking in the Reverend Mr. Rashleigh’s face, Mollie Dane recognized him at once.

She was standing at the instant, as it chanced, beside Hugh Ingelow, gayly helping him to satirize a magnificent “diamond wedding” they had lately attended; but at the sight of the portly, commonplace gentleman, the words seemed to freeze on her lips.