crimson-draped, and filled from floor to ceiling with a noble collection
of books. Great snow-flakes fluttered against the plate glass, and an
icy blast howled up the avenue, but in the glittering dining-room
flowers bloomed, and birds sung, and tropical fruits perfumed the air;
and radiant under the gas-light, beautiful Miss Dane flashed the light
of her blue eyes, and looked like some lovely little sprite from
fairy-land.

Miss Blanche Oleander, darkly majestic in maize silk and jewels, sat at
Miss Dane's right hand, and eyed her coldly with jealous dislike. Mollie
read her through at the first glance.

"She hates me already," thought Mr. Walraven's ward; "and your tall
women, with flashing black eyes and blue-black hair, are apt to be good
haters. Very well, Miss Oleander; it shall be just as you like."

A gentleman sat on her other hand--a handsome young artist--Mr. Hugh
Ingelow, and he listened with an attentive face, while she held her own
with the sarcastic Blanche, and rather got the best of the battle.

"The little beauty is no dunce," thought Mr. Hugh Ingelow. "Miss Blanche
has found a foe worthy of her best steel."

And coming to this conclusion, Mr. Ingelow immediately began making
himself agreeable to his fair neighbor. Miss Oleander was a pet aversion
of his own, and this bond of union drew him and her saucy little
antagonist together at once.

"Rather a sharp set-to, Miss Dane," the artist remarked, in his lazy
voice. "Miss Oleander is a clever woman, but she is matched at last.