A Woman's Will Part 17

"In Lucerne."

"What's his name? I know a lot of people who are in Lucerne just now.

Perhaps I know him."

"I wish that you did know him."

"Tell me his name."

"It's the composer, Herr von Ibn."

Molly screamed with joy.

"Oh, my dear, what luck you do have! Did he play for you? Have you heard any of his things?"

"No, unfortunately. You see I only met him on Sat.u.r.day, and as I came away this morning we had to rush every second as hard as we could in order to become acquainted at all."

"What fun to know him! He's going to be so tremendously famous, they say; did you know that?"

"So they told me there."

"And he plays in such a wonderful manner, too. What a pity he didn't play for you. Don't you love a violin, anyhow?"

"I don't know," said Rosina thoughtfully; "I think that I like a flute best, but I always think whenever I see a man playing on a violin that the att.i.tude ought to develop very affectionate tendencies in him."

"What kind of a fellow was he to talk to? Was he agreeable?"

"Most of the American men didn't like him, I believe," said Rosina; then she added, "but most of the American men never like any foreigners, you know, unless it's the Englishmen, perhaps."

"But what did you think of him?"

"I thought he was very queer; and he got the better of me all the time."

"That ought to have made you hate him."

"That is what seems so odd to me. I've been thinking about him all the time that I was on the train this morning. Do you know, Molly, that man was positively rude to me over and over again, and yet, try as I might, I couldn't stay angry with him." She paused and knit her brows for a few seconds over some recollection, and then she turned suddenly and laid her face against the other's shoulder. "Molly, dear," she said softly, "he had a way of smiling,--if you could only see it! Well!"

"Well!"

"I could forgive anything to that smile,--honestly."

Molly looked thoughtful.

"Sat.u.r.day to Monday," she murmured apropos of nothing.

Rosina lifted her head and gave her a glance.

"I wish that _you_ might meet him," she said gravely.

"I wish that he was here in Zurich," her friend replied.

At that instant there sounded a tap on the door.

"_Herein!_" Rosina cried.

It was a waiter with a card upon a tray; Molly held out her hand for the bit of pasteboard, glanced at it, and gave a start and a cry.

"Is anything the matter?" Rosina asked, reaching for the card. Her friend gave it to her, and as her eyes fell upon the name she turned first white and then red.

"It _can't_ be that he is here in Zurich!" she exclaimed.

"This is his card, anyway."

"Mercy on us!"

"Shall he come up here,--he had better, don't you think?"

"I don't know," she gasped. "I'm too surprised to think! The idea of his coming here this afternoon! Why, I never thought of such a thing. He said good-bye _forever_ last night. I--"

"Show monsieur to the room," Molly said to the man, cutting Rosina short in the full tide of her astonishment.

"Of course you must see him," she said, as the door closed, "and, not being entirely devoid of curiosity, I can't help feeling awfully glad to think that now I shall see him too."

She quitted the divan as she spoke and went to the mirror over the mantelpiece. There was something in the action that suddenly recalled Rosina to her senses, and she sprang to her feet and disappeared into the sleeping-room beyond, returning in two or three minutes bearing evidence of Ottillie's deft touch. She found Molly still before the mirror, and as her own reflection appeared over her friend's shoulder the other nodded and laughed.

"You seem to have made a deep impression," she said gayly.

"I can't understand it all," Rosina began; "he made _such_ a fuss over his good-bye last night and--and--well, really, I never dreamed of his doing such a thing as to come here."

"I'm heartily glad that he's come, because now I shall meet him, and I've heard--"

She was interrupted by a slight tap at the door, and before either could cry "_Entrez!_" it was flung open and Von Ibn strode into the room. The first glance at his face showed both that something was gone all wrong, and most horribly so.

Rosina, flushed afresh, went towards him, holding out her hand and wondering if it was anything in connection with Molly that had produced such an utter blackness.

"This is a very great surprise," she began, but he interrupted her at once.

"_Comme je vous ai cherche!_" he cried, with violence. "Why are you not gone to the Victoria as you say--as I ask you to?" His face was like a thunder-storm.

The corners of her mouth felt suddenly traitorous; she tried to speak, beginning, "I did not know--" but he broke in, and went hotly on with:

"Naturally you did not know, but I had already known! One could not, of course, expect me to get up to ride on that most uncomfortable train which you chose, but of course also I came on the first train leaving after I did wake up."

Molly turned abruptly to the window and leaned as far out as she could, her handkerchief pressed tightly over her mouth. Rosina wished that her friend might have been anywhere else; even during what is commonly called "a scene" two are infinitely better company than three.

"How most absurd I have been made," Von Ibn continued wrathfully, "in a cab from hotel to hotel hunting for you! Do you think I have ever done so before? Do you think I have found it very amusing to-day? Naturally I go from the Gare to the Victoria, where I have told you to go. I take there a room, and tell the _garcon_ to bring my card to madame; and in ten minutes, as I am getting me out of the dust of that most abominable middle-day train, he returns to say that no such as madame is within the house. _Figurez-vous?_ Why are you acted so? Why are you always so oddly singular?"

Rosina appeared struck dumb by the torrent of his words; she stood pink and silent before his towering blackness. Molly, at the window, judged it prudent to interfere, and, turning, began: