"Nor would you obey your husband for worlds, madame. I expressly desired you to stay at home."
"I know it, my love. Should be happy to oblige you, but in this case it is simply impossible."
"Have you no regard for the opinion of the world?"
"Every regard, my dear."
"What do you suppose society will say to see you at the opera, dressed like a queen, while we are all mourning poor Mollie's loss?"
"Society will say, if society has common sense, that Mrs. Walraven scorns to play hypocrite. I don't care for Mollie Dane—I never did care for her—and I don't mourn her loss in the least. I don't care that"—the lady snapped her jeweled fingers somewhat vulgarly—"if I never see her again. It is as well to tell you the truth, my dear. One should have no secrets from one's husband, they say."
She laughed lightly, and drew her opera-cloak up over her superb bare shoulders. Mr. Walraven's darkest scowl did not intimidate her in the least.
"Leave the room, madame!" ordered her husband, authoritatively; "and take you care that I don't assert my right and compel you to obey me, before long."
"Compel!" It was such a good joke that Mrs. Blanche's silvery laugh rang through the apartment. "You compelled me once, against my will, when you took your ward with you on your wedding-tour. I don't think it will ever happen again, Mr. Walraven. And now, how do you like my dress? I came in expressly to ask you, for the carriage waits."
"Leave the room!" cried Carl Walraven, in a voice of thunder. "Be gone!"