Does he dance, and will he ask me, I wonder ?" Yes, the dusky hero of the night did dance, and did ask Miss Blanche Oleander.

A tall, gray-eyed, imperious sort of beauty, this Miss Blanche, seven-and-twenty years of age, and frightfully _passe_, more youthful belles said.
Mr.Walraven danced the very first dance with Miss Oleander, to her infinite but perfectly concealed delight.
"If you can imagine the Corsair, whirling in a rapid redowa with Medora," Miss Oleander afterward said, "you have Mr.Walraven and myself.

There were about eighty Guinares gazing enviously on, ready to poniard me, every one of them, if they dared, and if they were not such miserable little fools and cowards.

When they cease to smell of bread and butter, Mr.Walraven may possibly deign to look at them." It seemed as if the dashing Blanche had waltzed herself straight into the affections of the new-found heir, for he devoted himself to her in the most _prononc_ manner for the first three hours, and afterward led her in to supper.
Miss Blanche sailed along serene, uplifted, splendidly calm; the little belles in lace, and roses, and pearls, fluttered and twittered like angry doves; and Mme.

Walraven, from the heights of her hostess-throne, looked aslant at her velvet and diamonds with uneasy old eyes.
"The last of all you should have selected," she said, waylaying her son after supper.