It appeared to pass with him, however, as the sort of pronunciation to be expected from a girl reared in America.
“How old are you now, Luise?” he questioned familiarly.
“Twenty-five.”
“Yet eines mädchen, I warrant.”
“I am not married, Herr Baron,” Ruth assured, employing the address to one of title. Either he was a possessor of baronial rank and pleased with the recognition of the fact, or the assignment of the rank was gratifying and he did not correct her.
“And in America you have no sweetheart of your own—other than your ‘flames?’”
He spoke the slang word in English, referring to Byrne and to Gerry Hull, with both of whom, as he believed, she had merely played.
“No one, Herr Baron,” Ruth denied, but colored warmly. He took this flush for confession that she was hiding an attachment; and he laughed.
“No matter, Luise; he is not here.”
He was indulgently more familiar with her—a von something or other, admitting pleasure with the daughter of a man of no rank who had emigrated to America. Ruth brought up the business between them to halt further acceleration of this familiarity.