new and it's nice, and I never get tired, or pale, or limpy, like most
of the girls. I never enjoyed myself so much in my life, and you would
say the same thing, guardy, only you're in your honey-moon, and not
capable of enjoying anything."

"But, Mollie," Mr. Walraven remonstrated, "it isn't right to flirt so
much as you do. There's young Ingelow. The way you devoted yourself to
that young man last night set everybody talking."

"Let 'em talk," responded Miss Dane, loftily. "When Mr. Ingelow followed
me all the way from New York, I think it was the very least I could do
in common politeness. He found it a waste and howling wilderness without
me--yes, he did; he said so. And then, Mr. Walraven, I like him."

"You like him?"

"Yes, ever and ever so much; and I'm dreadfully sorry for him, because
I know it'll break his heart when I refuse him."

"He hasn't proposed yet, then?"

"Not yet, but I expect it shortly. I know the symptoms. He looked almost
as sheepish last night as you used to before you proposed to Miss
Oleander."

It was quite true; the handsome young artist had followed Miss Dane to
Washington. He had hardly known how much he was in love with her until
she was gone, and all young-ladydom grew flat, stale, and insipid as
dish-water.