“I cannot help feeling curious as to whether, when I shall really be again in America, I shall know a longing for—for the Isar, or not?”
“I wonder, shall I ever be in America,” he said thoughtfully; “and if I ever should come there, where do you think would be for me the most interesting?”
“Chez moi,” she laughed.
He smiled in amusement at her quick answer.
“But I shall never come to America,” he went on presently; “I do not think it is a healthy country. I have an uncle who did die of the yellow fever in Chili.”
“There is more of America than Chili; that’s in South America—quite another country from mine.”
“Yes, I know; your land is where the men had the war with the negroes before they make them all free. I study all that once and find it quite dull.”
“The war was between the Northern and Southern States of North America—” she began.
“Ça ne m’intéresse du tout,” he broke in; “let us walk on.”
They walked on, and there was a lengthy pause in the conversation, because Rosina considered his interruption to be extremely rude and would not broach another subject. They went a long way in the darkness of a heavily clouded September twilight, and finally: