“Stop!” said Diotti; “we will drink to the first part of that toast,” and holding his glass against that of his bibulous host, continued: “To the dreamy-eyed women of my country, exacting of their lovers; obedient to their parents and loyal to their husbands,” and his voice rose in sonorous rhythm with the words.
“Now for the rest of the toast, to the one you love and who loves you,” came from Sanders.
“To the one I love and who loves me, God bless her!” fervently cried the guest.
“Is she a Tuscan?” asked old Sanders slyly.
“She is an angel!” impetuously answered the violinist. “Then she is an American!” said the old man gallantly.
“She is an American,” repeated Diotti, forgetting himself for the instant.
“Let me see if I can guess her name,” said old Sanders. “It’s—it’s Mildred Wallace!” and his manner suggested a child solving a riddle.
The violinist, about to speak, checked himself and remained silent.
“I sincerely pity Mildred if ever she falls in love,” abstractedly continued the host while filling another glass.
“Pray why?” was anxiously asked.