Walraven to gaze at
except the stages rattling up the pave, and some belated newsboys crying
their wares.
Perhaps these same little ill-clad newsboys, looking up through the
slanting rain, and seeing the well-dressed gentleman behind the rich
draperies, thought it must be a fine thing to be Mr. Carl Walraven, heir
to a half a million of money and the handsomest house in New York.
Perhaps you might have thought so, too, glancing into that lofty
chamber, with its glowing hangings of ruby and gold, its exquisite
pictures, its inlaid tables, its twinkling chandelier, its perfumed
warmth, and glitter, and luxury.
But Carl Walraven, lying back in a big easy-chair, in slippers and
dressing-gown, smoking his costly cheroots, looked out at the dismal
evening with the blackest of bitter, black scowls.
"Confound the weather!" muttered Mr. Walraven, between strong, white
teeth. "Why the deuce does it always rain on the twenty-fifth of
November? Seventeen years ago, on the twenty-fifth of this horrible
month, I was in Paris, and Miriam was--Miriam be hanged!" He stopped
abruptly, and pitched his cigar out of the window.
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