He glanced about.
“It will be droll if we meet some one you know.”
“Yes,” she said coldly; “it will be very funny—like Mrs. Jones to-day.”
“I am quite vexed when she came in,” he said seriously; “why do people come in like that?”
“We’ll be just as thoughtless when we’re her age,” Rosina said charitably. “I think myself that it is astonishing that so many young people manage to get betrothed when there are so many old people to keep coming in.”
“Getting betrothed is very simple,” said Von Ibn, “because always the young girl is willing; but when she is a young widow and not willing, that is what is difficult, and makes Mrs. Jones de trop.”
She was obliged to laugh.
They were come to the Maximiliansstrasse, and a car was making its way jerkily around the corners of the monument in the middle of the square. It was a car for the Ostbahnhof, and full—very full.
“Let it go by,” he said. “We will walk on and another comes in a moment.”
They let it pass, and wandered on towards the rushing river.