As Major Kildare left the house that evening with Herr Schwatka, he enthusiastically remarked:
“By Jove! that Miss Darcy is a fine woman!”
Herr Schwatka took a pull at his cigar, and dreamily watched the rings in the bright moonlight as they slowly curled up into the still air. At last he said:
“She is, indeed, but I feel a little afraid of those fair ‘Américaines!’ I can’t keep pace with them. I met one in Vienna during the Exposition, and she was a revelation. Such a sight-seer! Her mother was with her, but she could do very well without her. If she wanted to go out of an evening, and her mother was tired from her day’s peregrinations, that girl would say: ‘Go to bed, mamma; we are going to the opera?’ or whatever it might be. And off we would go, without protest from the submissive mamma. It was some while before I could comprehend her; her ways were so different from those of my own countrywomen. One evening while we were driving to a fête, emboldened by her unreserved manner, I attempted a little lover-like caress. You should have seen the American then! She sat as straight as a needle, and was equally sharp. ‘You and I are friends, aren’t we?’ she asked.
“‘Doubtless,’ I replied.
“‘Well,’ said she, ‘if you wish us to continue as such, don’t attempt to ditto that. I have come to see Europe, and I haven’t much time to spare. If we commence to make love, I won’t see anything but you, and as there is not the slightest possibility of your being the whole of Europe to me, if you will just be my comrade, I shall like it better.’
“I shall never forget the satisfied expression that stole over her face, as she folded her hands, and looked straight ahead with a gleam in her eyes, and then turned the conversation in the easiest manner imaginable. It amused me immensely, but I didn’t repeat the little indiscretion, and the few weeks she remained in Vienna were among the most delightful ones of my life. We were comrades, and I never understood till then how a woman could be perfectly free in her manners, yet perfectly true to her womanhood.”
“By Jove! Schwatka, it isn’t often that you find your match,” said the major, laughing heartily, as they entered the “Queen’s” Hotel.
That night the picture that only faded from the consciousness of Herr Schwatka, to reappear in his dreams, was that of a graceful woman—the wife of Donald Laure.