The two men watched them as they went up the steps—the elder woman so straight, so graceful, so full of ease; the younger fluttering beside her like a butterfly, her feet scarce touching the ground. It was difficult to realize that the actual difference in their ages was probably not more than five or six years, and that the impression of maturity which Madame Ghita gave was due almost wholly to her finish, her ease, her perfect poise. As they passed from sight, Davis took off his hat and wiped his forehead and breathed a deep sigh.
“Is it as bad as that?” inquired Selden, with a smile.
“Oh, I’m in love all right,” Davis answered, “and I’m going to marry her—I don’t give a damn what anybody says. I’ve never met a girl who could hold a candle to her.”
“Look here,” said Selden, “if you can get your mind off that young woman for a minute or two, I’d like to talk to you about something else. What about this engagement between your sister and Danilo?”
“Well, what about it?” asked Davis, a little truculently.
“Does she know about Madame Ghita?”
“I don’t know—probably not.”
“Don’t you think she ought to know?”
“What for? When the prince marries again, Madame Ghita becomes his widow, that’s all.”
“Perhaps so,” assented Selden, scenting the baron’s teaching. “Just the same she ought to know there is a widow. It would be squarer.”