“Oh, dear, no,” said Rosina, turning quickly scarlet; “don’t harbor such an idea for a second. Nothing of that sort will ever happen to me again. A burnt child dreads the fire, and I can assure you I’m cinders to the last atom. But never mind me, tell me about yourself. That is much more interesting.”
“‘About myself is it you’re inquiring’?” laughed the Irish girl; “’tis easy told. Last winter, like a fool, I engaged myself to a sweet young Russian colonel, and this spring he died—”
“Oh, Molly!”
“Never mind, my dear, because I can assure you that I didn’t. Russians are so furiously made up that he couldn’t stand any of the other men that I was engaged to. My life was too broad a burden in consequence, and I was well satisfied at his funeral.”
“Is it his mother that you are travelling with?”
“His mother! No, dear, I can’t stand any of the family now.”
“Whose mother is she?”
“She isn’t anybody’s mother. That’s how she can be sixty-five and look forty-two by gaslight.”
“Does she look forty-two by gaslight? Oh, imagine looking forty-two by gaslight!”
“By men’s gaslight she looks forty-two. Any woman could just instinctively see through everything from her wig to her waist, and that’s why she has grown to hate me so.”