Chapter Seventeen
WHEN Rosina opened her door it was Molly who stood there; a gorgeous Molly, put forth by all that was uppermost in the Kärntnerstrasse of that year.
“Why, where ever did you come from?” she cried.
“From Vienna,” said Molly; “from Vienna by way of Botzen and Venice.”
“And Madame la Princesse?”
“I’ve left her and qualified as a chaperone on my own hook.”
“You’re with Madame—Madame—” Rosina looked down at the carte-de-visite which she held in her fingers still.
“I’m not with her; I’m her!”
“You’re—”
“Madame La Francesca.”