Walraven.
Stay! There was the Reverend Raymond Rashleigh, who might have seen his
way through, had he chanced to read the "Personal" column of the paper.
On the Thursday morning that this last advertisement appeared, Mrs. Carl
Walraven sat alone in the pretty boudoir sacred to her privacy. It was
her choice to breakfast alone sometimes, _en dishabille_. It had been
her choice on this particular day.
At her elbow stood the tiny round table, with its exquisite appointments
of glass, and porcelain, and silver; its chocolate, its toast, its eggs,
its little broiled bird.
Mrs. Walraven was of the luxurious sort, as your full-blown, high-blooded
Cleopatras are likely to be, and did ample justice to the exquisite
_cuisine_ of the Walraven mansion.
Lying back gracefully, her handsome morning robe falling loosely around
her, her superb black hair twisted away in a careless, serpentine coil,
her face fresh and blooming, "at peace with the world and all therein,"
my lady Blanche digested her breakfast and leisurely skimmed the morning
paper.
She always liked the "Personals.
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