Walraven presented himself at the other hotel, and sent up his card
with a waiter to Miss Dane.
The waiter ushered him into the hotel parlor, cold and prim as it is
in the nature of hotel parlors to be. Mr. Walraven sat down and stared
vaguely at the papered walls, rather at a loss as to what he should say
to this piquant Mollie, and wondering how he would feel if she laughed
at him.
"And she will laugh," he thought, with a mental groan; "she's the sort
of girl that laughs at everything. And she may refuse, too; there is no
making sure of a woman; and then what will Miriam say?"
He paused with a gasp. There was a quick patter of light feet down the
stairs, the last two cleared with a jump, a swish of silken skirts, a
little gush of perfume, and then, bright as a flash of light, blue-eyed
Mollie stood before him. She held his card in her fingers, and all the
yellow hair fell over her plump shoulders, like amber sunshine over
snow.
"Mr. Carl Walraven?" Miss Dane said, with a smile and a graceful little
bow.
Mr. Carl Walraven rose up and returned that pretty courtesy with a
salute stiff and constrained.
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