“And you’re sailing for Europe on your honeymoon!” he exclaimed. “Well, upon my word! And what is your ship?”
“The Lusitania.”
“Really! I have a friend who is sailing on her—a most charming woman. I sent flowers to her only an hour ago.”
“Did you?” asked Rue, interested.
“Yes. She is a widow—the Princess Mistchenka—a delightful and pretty woman. I am going to send a 110 note to the steamer tonight saying that—that my very particular friend, Ruhannah Carew, is on board, and won’t she ask you to tea. You’d love her, Rue. She’s a regular woman.”
“But—oh, dear!—a Princess!”
“You won’t even notice it,” he said reassuringly. “She’s a corker; she’s an artist, too. I couldn’t begin to tell you how nice she has been to me. By the way, Rue, whom did you marry?”
“Mr. Brandes.”
“Brandes? I don’t remember—was he from up-state?”
“No; New York—I think––”