The maid went out.
“What makes you go?” Rosina asked; “I wouldn’t.”
“Oh, my dear, I’ve stayed at their place in the Caucasus weeks at a time, and I have to be decent, and she knows it.”
“Why did you ever accept an invitation to travel with such a horrid person?”
Molly was out of bed and jerking her hair-ribbons savagely loose.
“She isn’t a horrid person,” she said; “they are very nice princes and princesses, all of them. Only I hate to lead an existence like the slave of the ring or the genii of the lamp, or whoever the johnny was who had to jump whenever they rubbed their hands. It riles my blood just a bit too much.”
“I wouldn’t,” said Rosina decidedly; “I certainly wouldn’t.”
“I wish I’d taken the Turk,” the Irish girl exclaimed, as she wove her hair back and forth and in and out upon the crown of her head, “I’d have been free of Russia then; ’tis a hint for European politics, my present situation.”
Rosina suddenly gave a sharp cry.
“Oh, Molly,—and me?”