“Then I don’t care if I never do meet him again,” Rosina exclaimed passionately, and the next instant she burst into tears. “He’s so interesting,” she sobbed; “and his way of speaking is such an everlasting joy to me; and he never means to marry; and I never mean to marry; and I know that he really cared a great deal about me; and now it’s—all—all over!”
Molly leaned over and kissed her, drew a comforting arm around her waist, and gave her an affectionate squeeze.
“Don’t take it so awfully to heart, my dear,” she whispered soothingly; “we all have troubles of one kind, if not of another. Here’s a long letter come by the morning post from my dear gray-caped lieutenant, and it’s just full of the worst sort of desperation over our mutual affairs. He knows that we can’t possibly marry without a certain amount of money, which we have neither of us got, and so there you are!”
“How much is it?” Rosina asked dully. She felt that she ought to try and make an effort to interest herself in the lives of others, even if her own had so completely crashed in.
“Oh, it’s something awful in pounds, but in those Italian lire!—why, it’s not to be thought of for a moment. He thinks that he had best chuck up the army and take me to America instead!”
“Oh, Molly, don’t let him do that! We haven’t any Italians in America except organ-grinders and miners, and the Ambassador, of course!”
“I knew it wouldn’t do,” said the Irish girl. Then she shrugged her shoulders and laughed.
“But then I never did intend to marry him, anyhow!”
They drove back to the hotel, and Rosina’s eyes were fairly presentable when the Portier came out to receive them.
“There is a letter just come for madame,” he said, as they entered the Kreuzgang; “it is in the office; I will bring it at once.”