"The hoary dotard!" muttered the artist, glaring and grinding his teeth;
"the sixty-five-year-old imbecile! It is the first time I ever heard her
decline a waltz under the plea of fatigue. She's a heartless coquette,
that Mollie Dane, and I am a fool to waste a second thought upon her."

Miss Dane danced no more that evening, and Sir Roger never left her
side. She talked to him until his old eyes sparkled; she smiled upon him
until his brain swam with delight.

And that was but the beginning. The torments Mr. Hugh Ingelow suffered
for the ensuing two weeks words are too weak to describe. To cap the
climax, Dr. Oleander suddenly appeared upon the scene and glowered under
bent black brows at coquettish Mollie.

"The idea of being civil to anything so commonplace as a mere doctor,"
Miss Dane said to her guardian, when taken to task for the airs she
assumed, "when Welsh baronets are ready to go down on their knees and
worship the ground I walk on! If he doesn't like the way he is treated,
he knows the way back to New York. I never sent for him to come here."

Sir Roger's devotion was inexpressible. No wonder Mollie was dazzled.
The city was on the _qui vive_. The piquant little New York beauty, whom
the men adored and the women abused, had caught the golden prize. Would
he really ask her to become Lady Trajenna, or would the glamour wear off
and leave the saucy little flirt stranded high and dry?

The last night of Mr. Walraven's stay in Washington settled that
question. They were at a grand reception, Mrs. Walraven magnificent in
moiré and diamonds, and Mollie floating about in a cloud of misty pink,