“Well, dear, from the little I’ve seen of Herr von Ibn I should say that it would be impossible to ever work him by any other rule than that of his own sweet—or otherwise—will.”
“But I like that.”
“Yes, so I gathered from your actions.”
“And, after all, whatever he is—” Rosina paused and ran her fingers through her hair. “It doesn’t any of it amount to anything, you know,” she added.
“Oh, dear no. That’s evident enough.”
Rosina started.
“What do you mean?” she cried.
“Oh, nothing as far as he’s concerned;—only as far as you are.”
“But,” Rosina insisted, “you did mean something. What was it? You mean—”
“I don’t mean anything,” said Molly; “if he don’t mean anything and you don’t mean anything, how in Heaven’s name could I mean anything?”