"You are going, then?" said Mr. Carl Walraven.
"Going?" Mrs. Walraven arches her black eyebrows in pretty surprise at
the word. "Of course, my dear. I would not miss 'Robert le Diable' and
the charming new tenor for worlds."
"Nor would you obey your husband for worlds, madame. I expressly desired
you to stay at home."
"I know it, my love. Should be happy to oblige you, but in this case it
is simply impossible."
"Have you no regard for the opinion of the world?"
"Every regard, my dear."
"What do you suppose society will say to see you at the opera, dressed
like a queen, while we are all mourning poor Mollie's loss?"
"Society will say, if society has common sense, that Mrs. Walraven
scorns to play hypocrite. I don't care for Mollie Dane--I never did
care for her--and I don't mourn her loss in the least. I don't care
that"--the lady snapped her jeweled fingers somewhat vulgarly--"if I
never see her again. It is as well to tell you the truth, my dear. One
should have no secrets from one's husband, they say."
She laughed lightly, and drew her opera-cloak up over her superb bare
shoulders.
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