“But do you really think that he is?”
“Well, of course one can never be sure with foreigners.”
“Molly!”
“’Tis a fact, my dear. But then you know one can never be sure with one’s self either, so there you are.”
Rosina laughed ringingly. Then they kissed one another and Molly departed.
Then came work for Ottillie, and her mistress was hardly completed as to embroidered batiste and black moiré ribbon, when the large and remarkable card with which the more distinguished portion of European masculinity announce their presence was brought to the room by one of the hotel garçons.
He awaited her in the salon below, and when she appeared there to him, such an expression dawned within his eyes as altered completely not only their habitual melancholy, but the customary shadows of his whole face as well. There is no flattery so subtle in its charm or so deeply touching in its homage as such a change, and Rosina felt as much complimented as any other woman would have been, had it been in her to work so great a miracle in so great, and such, a man.
“Vous allez bien?” he asked eagerly, as he came quickly forward to bow over her hand.
“Yes, very well;” and then, because she always became nervous directly she lived beneath his steady look, she plunged wildly into the subject uppermost in her mind. “And I ought to feel very well, because in all probability I must travel again to-day.”