Mr. Walraven looked his bride steadfastly in the eye for a moment, then
sat down deliberately.

"Look here, Mrs. Walraven," said Mr. Walraven, perfectly cool, "you
have made a little mistake, I fancy. Permit me to rectify it. Wearing
the breeches is a vulgar expression, I am aware, and only admissible
in low circles; still, it so forcibly expresses what I am trying to
express, that you will allow me to use it. You are trying to don the
inexpressibles, Blanche, but it won't do. My ward goes with us on our
bridal tour, or there shall be no bridal tour at all. There! you have it
in plain English, Mrs. Carl Walraven!"

Five minutes later Mr. and Mrs. Walraven descended to the carriage, Mrs.
Walraven with her veil drawn down, and making her adieus in a smothered
sort of voice. Mr. Walraven handed in his ward next, then followed; the
coachman flourished his whip and they were gone.

The happy pair were merely going to Washington. Mr. Walraven had had a
surfeit of Europe, and Washington, this sparkling winter weather, was at
its gayest and best. The Walraven party, with plethoric purses, plunged
into the midst of the gayety at once.

"I like this sort of thing," said Mollie to her guardian; "the theater,
and the opera, and a ball, and two or three parties every night. I like
dancing until broad daylight, and going to bed at six in the morning,
and getting up to breakfast at one. I like matinees at three in the
afternoon, and dinners with seventeen courses, and going to the White
House, and shaking hands with the President, and sailing around the East
Room, and having people point me out as the beauty of the season. It's