And then Miriam Dane was gone, flitting through bustling Broadway like a
tall, haggard ghost.
Hugh Ingelow turned back to the window, his brows knit, his lips
compressed, his eyes glowing with a deep, intense fire--thinking. So he
stood while the low, yellow gleams died out of the western sky, and the
crystal stars swung in the azure arch--thinking, thinking!
CHAPTER XVIII.
"SHE ONLY SAID, 'MY LIFE IS DREARY.'"
That same brilliant sunburst that transfigured the artist's studio in
Broadway blazed into the boudoir of Mrs. Carl Walraven, and turned the
western windows to sheets of quivering flame.
Elegant and handsome, in a superb dinner-dress of rose-bloom silk and
pale emeralds, Mrs. Walraven lay back on her sofa and looked up in the
face of her cousin Guy.
"Booted and spurred," as if from a journey, the young man stood before
her, hat in hand, relating the success of their scheme. A little pale,
a good deal fagged, and very anxious, Dr. Guy had sought his cousin the
very first thing on his arrival in town. Mrs. Carl, arrayed for
conquest, going out to a grand dinner-party, was very well disposed to
linger and listen.
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