“Yes, Doctor,” and Maria, after a glance to make sure that all was right with her tray, left them alone together.
“To the old days, Paul,” said the Doctor, after filling his own glass and his friend’s.
“No,” replied Paul, “to now, to to-morrow. May the future be as happy as that old past; and may your daughter, if she lives, be as good a woman as her mother; and if she dies, may she leave as sweet a memory behind her.”
They drank in silence, and as they put their glasses down Lola joined them. She had changed to what, to the masculine eye, looked like a very elaborate street costume, and she stood there in the doorway buttoning her gloves as she called out gayly:
“You two look comfortable!”
“Ah, yes,” replied Dr. Crossett. “An old friend, a good drink, a pretty woman, what more could be asked? Ah, my dear.” He looked at her admiringly. “How chic, how fine we look.”
“A new dress, Lola?” inquired her father, looking up from his chessmen absently.
“Oh, dear, no,” said Lola, carelessly. “Just an old rag.”
“A dainty rag,” commented Dr. Crossett.
“I am sure I never saw it before,” continued Dr. Barnhelm, looking at her a little anxiously.