Mrs. Walraven, gorgeous in amber moiré, sidled up to her cousin, and
hissed venomously in his ear:

"So the vicious Guy Oleander has lost his little game, after all!
Blue-eyed Mollie is destined to be 'My Lady,' in spite of his teeth."

"'There is many a slip'--you know the proverb, Madame."

It was all he said; but his sinister smile, as he moved away, said a
great deal.

Hugh Ingelow, very pale, stood leaning against a marble column, all
wreathed with festal roses, not as white as his own handsome face.

"What are they plotting, I wonder?" he thought. "No good to her. They
hate her, as I ought to, but as I can't, poor, pitiful fool that I am!
But my time may come, too. I said I would not forget, and will not."

The bride-maids, a gay group of girls, came fluttering into the "maiden
bower" to see if the bride was ready.

"For the clergyman is down-stairs, and the guests are assembled, and Sir
Roger is waiting, and nothing is needed but the bride."

"A very essential need," responded Mollie. "I'm not going to hurry
myself; they can't get along without me. A letter, Lucy? For me? From
whom, I wonder?"

The girl had entered, bearing a note in a buff envelope, addressed, in a
sprawling hand, to "Miss Mollie Dane."