DEAR GUY,—Come to me at once. I wish to see you most particularly. Don't lose a moment.
Very truly,
BLANCHE.
Ringing the bell, Mrs. Walraven dispatched this little missive, and then, reclining easily in the downy depths of her violet velvet fauteuil, she fell into a reverie that lasted for upward of an hour. With sleepy, slow, half-closed eyes, the wicked, smile just curving the ripe-red mouth, Mme. Blanche wandered in the land of meditation, and had her little plot all cut and dry as the toy Swiss clock on the low mantel struck up a lively waltz preparatory to striking eleven. Ere the last silvery chime had ceased vibrating, the door of the boudoir opened and Dr. Guy Oleander walked in.
"Good-morning, Mrs. Walraven," said the toxicologist, briskly. "You sent for me. What's the matter?"
He took off his tall hat, set it on a sofa, threw his gloves into it, and indulged in a prolonged professional stare at his fair relative.
"Nothing very serious, I imagine. You're the picture of handsome health. Really, Blanche, the Walraven air seems to agree with you. You grow fresher, and brighter, and plumper, and better-looking every day."
"I didn't send for you to pay compliments, Doctor Oleander," said Mrs. Walraven, smiling graciously, all the same. "See if that door is shut fast, please, and come and sit here beside me. I've something very serious to say to you."
Dr. Oleander did as directed, and took a seat beside the lady.
"Your husband won't happen in, will he, Blanche? Because he might be jealous, you know, at this close proximity; and your black-a-vised men of unknown antecedents are generally the very dickens when they fall a prey to the green-eyed monster."