"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.

"Yes, Miss Dane."

"Pray resume your seat, Mr. Walraven," with an airy wave of a little
white hand. "To what do I owe this visit?"

She fluttered into a big black arm-chair as she spoke, folded the little
white hands, and glanced across with brightly expectant eyes.

"You must think this call, from an utter stranger, rather singular, Miss
Dane," Mr. Walraven began, considerably at a loss.

Miss Dane laughed.

"Oh, dear, no! not at all--the sort of thing I am used to, I assure you!
May I ask its purport?"

"Miss Dane, you must pardon me," said Mr. Walraven, plunging desperately
head first into his mission, "but I saw you play last night, and I
have--yes, I have taken a violent fancy to you."

Miss Mollie Dane never flinched. The wicked sparkle in the dancing eyes
grew a trifle wickeder, perhaps, but that was all.

"Yes," she said, composedly; "go on."