“American an' Russian, they are the worse,” said the Countess thoughtfully, as she served him with a generous cup, laced with rum, “but the American he is the bes' to play wiz.” Mellin found her irresistible when she said “wiz.”
“Why is that?”
“Oh, the Russian play high, yes—but the American”—she laughed delightedly and stretched her arms wide—“he make' it all a joke! He is beeg like his beeg country. If he win or lose, he don' care! Ah, I mus' tell you of my great American frien', that Honor-able Chanlair Pedlow, who is comin' to Rome. You have heard of Honor-able Chanlair Pedlow in America?”
“I remember hearing that name.”
“Ah, I shall make you know him. He is a man of distinction; he did sit in your Chamber of Deputies—what you call it?—yes, your Con-gress. He is funny, eccentric—always he roar like a lion—Boum!—but so simple, so good, a man of such fine heart—so lovable!”
“I'll be glad to meet him,” said Mellin coldly.
“An', oh, yes, I almos' forget to tell you,” she went on, “your frien', that dear Cooley, he is on his way from Monte Carlo in his automobile. I have a note from him to-day.”
“Good sort of fellow, little Cooley, in his way,” remarked her companion graciously. “Not especially intellectual or that, you know. His father was a manufacturer chap, I believe, or something of the sort. I suppose you saw a lot of him in Paris?”
“Eh, I thought he is dead!” cried Madame de Vaurigard.
“The father is. I mean, little Cooley.”