“Where did you learn to play?” Judge Giffen drew Frei aside.
“In Warsaw.”
“Ah! Indeed? I know Warsaw.” He began to relate to Dr. Frei whatever incidents remained in his mind of his visit to the Polish capital, twenty-five years before.
Mrs. Witherby was assisting Mrs. Lee in gathering up her fancywork, scissors, spools and so forth, and was receiving in return that lady’s ardent thanks for her help in notifying guests without telephones of Mr. Falcon’s home-coming breakfast. Mabel lifted the old lady’s white wool shawl and wrapped it about her.
“Oh, do come here, Mrs. Mearely!” cried Corinne, who was now alone at the card table. She caught Rosamond’s hand and began excitedly, “Oh, Mrs. Mearely, Judge Giffen has just read such a thrilling thing in the Digest. Just think! a real prince has run away from his throne, and taken a different name, but they don’t know what it is and—and—he’s gone looking for a real romance—and they think he has hidden himself in some little town. Oh! think; if he’d only come to Roseborough! Oh, Mrs. Mearely,” she panted, “all my life I’ve wanted something wonderful to happen in Roseborough!”
Rosamond laughed, noting Corinne’s breathless excitement rather than her news.
“My dear Corinne, nothing will ever happen in Roseborough.”
Corinne almost wailed her protest at this hard saying.
“Oh, it might happen! Think if the prince came here. Oh, he might, Mrs. Mearely,” she pleaded. “He might.”
Rosamond, smiling, shook her head. Seeing that Mrs. Lee was ready to leave, she threw her own wrap around her.