“All right,” said the fiancée amicably; “but, dear, didn’t you think that it was awful in Jack to tell me that he’d gone crazy, and frighten me half to death?”
“It must have been a terrible blow when you found that he hadn’t cared enough to go crazy, after all.”
“Molly!”
“And however are you going to exist with the ‘tempérament jaloux’?”
“I never minded that a bit. Every time he is angry he is so adorable afterwards. We shall have such lovely makings-up. Oh, I expect to just revel in his rages!”
Madame La Francesca’s dimples danced afresh.
“And I,” she said, “I was raised with a hot-headed Irish father and four hot-headed Irish brothers, and I’ve been engaged to one peppery Scotchman and to frequent red-peppery continentals, so I find my ideal in an Italian who is, as the French say, ‘Doux comme un agneau.’”
“I thought it was ‘Doux comme un mouton,’” said Rosina cruelly, even while she was conscious of a real and genuine pity for her friend, under the circumstances.
“No, it’s ‘agneau,’” the other replied placidly, and then she rose and shook out her stunning blue grenadine self. “I must go. I’ve been away a long time.”
“You don’t get a bit tired of him, do you?”