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.

An exultant smile wreathed her full, ripe lips and lighted the big black eyes with triumph.
"Poor little fool!" she said.

"How nicely she baited her own trap, and how nicely she walked into it! Thank the stars, she is out of my way! Guy, if you let her come back, I'll never forgive you!" "By Jove, Blanche!" said the doctor, bluntly, "if she ever comes back, it will matter very little whether you forgive me or not.