“You have never been in Europe, then, Miss Strong?”
Count Szalaki turned smilingly to his vis-à-vis as they seated themselves at the dining-table in a room that appeared luxurious even to the eye of the guest. There was a peculiarity in his pronunciation that defies reproduction in cold type. His voice was gentle and carefully modulated, and the English language seemed to do homage to his rank, for it fell from his lips in a musical softness that was extremely pleasing to the ear.
Kate Strong was fascinated, against her will, by the dark gray eyes of the picturesque youth at her side. His black hair curled romantically about a high, white brow, and his mouth, symmetrically curved, indicated an imaginative and generous temperament. His white, even teeth added vastly to the brilliancy of his smile. There was a touch of embarrassment in his manner, now and then, that seemed to exact sympathy from his entertainers.
“Not since I was quite young,” answered Kate, with the air of one who has reached extreme old age.
“My sister,” remarked Ned Strong, as the butler removed his soup-plate—“my sister, Count Szalaki, is a tremendous democrat, you know. She won’t go to Europe, I fear, until every country over there has become a republic.”
“How unfair!” cried Mrs. Strong, glancing deprecatingly at her son.
“Then, Miss Strong, you don’t approve of foreign aristocrats?” asked the count gently, smiling at Kate in a confiding way.
“Indeed I do,” she returned, looking defiantly at Ned. “We should be very dull in our set, you know, without them.”
“But you don’t take them au sérieux?” asked the count, anxious to stand on solid ground.
“Indeed we don’t,” cried Kate. “We marry them, you know.”