Then low laughter rippled from one narrow bed to the other and back again.
Five minutes later there was a murmur.
“I do wish, Molly, that you’d tell me what you really thought of him.”
“I thought he was grand. How could any one think anything else?”
Then through the stillness and darkness there sounded the frou-frou of ruffles and the sweetness and warmth of a fervent kiss.
Chapter Seven
THE next morning they both breakfasted in bed, the ingenuity of Ottillie having somewhat mitigated the tray difficulty by a clever adjustment of the wedge-shaped piece of mattress with which Europe elevates its head at night. Molly was just “winding up” a liberal supply of honey, and Rosina was salting her egg, when there came a tap at the door of the salon.
“Ah, Monsieur von Ibn is up early,” the Irish girl said in a calm whisper, thereby frightening her friend to such a degree that she dropped the salt-spoon into her cup of chocolate. Then they both held their breath while Ottillie hurried to the door.
It proved to be nothing more unconventional than the maid of Madame la Princesse, a long-suffering female who bore the name of Claudine.