“Then she’s not engaged to him?” said I.
“Yes, she is,” replied Neva. “And if you knew him, you’d not wonder at it. I don’t like foreigners, but if I weren’t bespoke I think I’d have to take Tilzer-Borgfeldt if he asked me.”
“No doubt it’s a first-class title,” said I.
“You know perfectly well, Godfrey Loring, that I don’t mean the title.” She happened to glance toward the entrance to the garden. “Here he comes now. You’ll judge for yourself.”
Advancing toward us was a big, happy blond man of the pattern from which nine out of ten German upper-class men are cut. He had the expression of simple, unaffected joy natural to a big, healthy, happy blond youth looking forward to seeing his best girl. He had youth, good looks, unusual personal magnetism—and you will imagine what effect this produced upon my mood. I could not deny that Neva was right. Without a title this man would have all the chances in his favor when he went courting. He had not a trace of aristocratic futility.
You would have admired the frank cordiality of my greeting. Instead of sitting down again I glanced at my watch and said:
“Well, my time’s up. I shall have to go without seeing Horace and Mary.”
“But you’ll come to dinner?” said Mrs. Armstrong.
“I’m taking the first express back to Paris,” said I. “I found a telegram waiting for me at my hotel.”
“Mary will be disappointed,” said Neva. “You’ll give Mrs. Loring my best?”