She may love Ingelow, but she is yours. Make her your wife.
Teach her to overcame that little weakness."
"As soon as I can settle my affairs," said Doctor Oleander, resolutely,
"I shall leave the country. I have a friend in Havana--a physician.
There is a promising opening out there, he tells me. I'll take Mollie
and go."
"I would," replied Mrs. Walraven, cheerfully. "It's a nice, unhealthy
climate; and then, when you are a widower--as you will be, thanks to
yellow fever--come back to dear New York. There's no place like it. And
now, my dear Guy, I don't wish to be rude, you know, but if you would
depart at once, you would very much oblige me."
Mrs. Walraven stood up, walked over to the whole-length mirror, and took
a prolonged and complacent view of her full-blown charms.
"How do you think I am looking, Guy?" languidly. "Rather too pale, am
I not? I must have recourse to that vulgar necessity, rouge. Don't you
think this new shade of pink lovely? and so highly suitable to my
brunette style."
Dr. Oleander gave her a glance of disgust, took his hat, and turned to
leave.
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