“Where is he stationed?” her friend inquired.
“Rome; and he hasn’t a cent beyond his pay, so we can’t think of any future which makes him so blue.”
“Poor fellow! do you consider yourself engaged to him?”
“Of course I’m engaged to him. He came a whole day’s journey to propose. You don’t suppose I’d say ‘no’ to a chap who was awfully hard up, and then took a long, expensive trip just on my account! Besides, I’m most desperately in love with him, and he is the kind of man who couldn’t come to time any other way. He is a most awfully good sort—the sort that believe in everything. Why, he has such a high opinion of me that it’s almost depressing at times. I can’t live up to a high opinion; it’s all I can do to keep above a low one.”
“But how will it come out, Molly?”
“It won’t come out at all unless you tell it. No one else knows. He can’t say anything without compromising himself, and I’m not likely to let it out unless I some day pull up the wrong locket by accident.”
“But don’t it trouble you?”
“Trouble me! Why should it trouble me? It’s that old Russian woman who troubles me. I’d be idiotic to add to my miseries by thinking up any other torments while I’m around with her. Here we are at the Quai,—that’s the hotel yonder. And I’ve talked one continuous stream ever since we left the Gare and you’ve never said a word. Begin right off and tell me something about yourself. Who have you met since you came over in May? Of course you’ve met some one. Who?”
“An old French marquis,” Rosina told her thoughtfully.
“And no one else?”