Yes, the dusky hero of the night did dance, and did ask Miss Blanche
Oleander. A tall, gray-eyed, imperious sort of beauty, this Miss
Blanche, seven-and-twenty years of age, and frightfully _passée_, more
youthful belles said.

Mr. Walraven danced the very first dance with Miss Oleander, to her
infinite but perfectly concealed delight.

"If you can imagine the Corsair, whirling in a rapid redowa with
Medora," Miss Oleander afterward said, "you have Mr. Walraven and
myself. There were about eighty Guinares gazing enviously on, ready to
poniard me, every one of them, if they dared, and if they were not such
miserable little fools and cowards. When they cease to smell of bread
and butter, Mr. Walraven may possibly deign to look at them."

It seemed as if the dashing Blanche had waltzed herself straight into
the affections of the new-found heir, for he devoted himself to her in
the most _prononcé_ manner for the first three hours, and afterward led
her in to supper.

Miss Blanche sailed along serene, uplifted, splendidly calm; the little
belles in lace, and roses, and pearls, fluttered and twittered like
angry doves; and Mme. Walraven, from the heights of her hostess-throne,
looked aslant at her velvet and diamonds with uneasy old eyes.

"The last of all you should have selected," she said, waylaying her son
after supper. "A woman without a heart, Carl--a modern Minerva. I have
no wish to interfere with you, my son; I shall call the day happy that
brings me your wife, but not Blanche Oleander--not that cold-blooded,