The second week of their return Mr. and Mrs. Walraven were "at home" to
their friends, and once more the spacious halls and stair-ways were
ablaze with illumination, and the long ranges of rooms, opening one into
another, were radiant with light, and flowers, and music, and brilliant
ladies.

Mrs. Walraven, superb in her bridal robes, stood beside her husband,
receiving their guests. And Miss Mollie Dane, in shimmering silk, that
blushed as she walked, and clusters of water-lilies drooping from her
tinseled curls, was as lovely as Venus rising from the sea-foam.

Here, there, everywhere, she flashed like a gleam of light; waltzing
with the dreamy-eyed artist, Hugh Ingelow, hanging on the arm of Dr.
Oleander, chattering like a magpie with Lawyer Sardonyx, and anon
laughing at all three with Sir Roger Trajenna.

You might as well have tried to regulate the vagaries of a comet--as
well guess from what quarter the fickle wind would next blow.

"Women are all puzzles," said Dr. Oleander, in quiet despair to Mrs.
Walraven. "That is a truism long and tried; but, by Jove! Miss Mollie
Dane puts the toppers on the lot. I never met with such a bewildering
sprite."

"Odious, artful creature!" hissed the bride of Carl Walraven. "It is
all her crafty scheming to attract the attention of that hoary-headed
simpleton, Sir Roger Trajenna. If you are in love with her, Guy (and how
you can is a mystery to me), why don't you propose at once?"