A Woman's Will Part 19

"No," said Molly thoughtfully, "to be sure you can die and they can bury you between Sat.u.r.day and Monday, but nothing ever happened to living people in such a short time, of course."

"I wish you wouldn't laugh."

"I'm not laughing, I'm thinking."

"What are you thinking?"

"I was thinking that if I met a man in Lucerne on Sat.u.r.day and he came stalking me to Zurich on Monday, I certainly should--" she hesitated.

"Well, I shouldn't," Rosina declared flatly.

There was a pause, during which Molly finished her braids and proceeded to establish herself on the foot of her friend's bed in a most confidence-provoking att.i.tude.

"Let's talk about the lieutenant," the American suggested at last.

"He's too mild for to-night," her friend said; "it would be like toast and rain-water after a hunt meet to discuss him just now. Let's talk about Dmitri."

"Whose Dmitri? another one of your _fiances_?"

"Oh, dear no. He's a cross Russian poodle that was given me last Christmas. When you try to be nice to him he bites. I don't know what makes me think of him just now."

Rosina laughed, and held her hand out lovingly towards the pretty girl at her feet.

"Forgive me, Molly. I really didn't mean to be vexed. Let us talk of something pleasant and leave my latest to sleep in peace at the Victoria."

"Are you sure that he's at the Victoria?"

"Not at all; he may have moved to this hotel, or returned to Lucerne."

"I should think so, indeed."

"But never mind."

Molly took her knees into the embrace of her clasped hands.

"I wonder if you ever _will_ marry again," she murmured curiously.

"Never."

"Are you sorry that you ever married?"

"No-o-o," said the other reflectively, "because I never could have known the joy of being a widow any other way, you know."

"Would you advise me to marry," Molly inquired; "one can't be sure of the widowhood, and if one has courage and self-denial a life of single blessedness is attainable for any woman."

"I don't believe it is for you, though."

"Why not, pray?"

"Your eyes are all wrong; old maids never have such eyes."

"I got my eyes from my father."

"Well, he wasn't an old maid, surely?"

"No, he was a captain in the Irish Dragoons."

"There, you see!"

Molly stood up and shook her gown out, preparatory to untying its series of frontal bows.

"But if you were to marry again--" she began.

Rosina threw up an imploring hand.

"You send cold December chills down my warm June back," she cried sharply.

Molly flung the dressing-gown upon a chair and proceeded to turn off the lights.

"I don't want you to think I'm cross," began an apologetic voice in the dark which descended about them.

"I wasn't thinking of you at all."

"What were you thinking of?"

"Of Dmitri."

Then low laughter rippled from one narrow bed to the other and back again.

Five minutes later there was a murmur.

"I do wish, Molly, that you'd tell me what you _really_ thought of him."

"I thought he was grand. How could any one think anything else?"

Then through the stillness and darkness there sounded the _frou-frou_ of ruffles and the sweetness and warmth of a fervent kiss.

Chapter Seven

The next morning they both breakfasted in bed, the ingenuity of Ottillie having somewhat mitigated the tray difficulty by a clever adjustment of the wedge-shaped piece of mattress with which Europe elevates its head at night. Molly was just "winding up" a liberal supply of honey, and Rosina was salting her egg, when there came a tap at the door of the salon.

"Ah, Monsieur von Ibn is up early," the Irish girl said in a calm whisper, thereby frightening her friend to such a degree that she dropped the salt-spoon into her cup of chocolate. Then they both held their breath while Ottillie hurried to the door.

It proved to be nothing more unconventional than the maid of Madame la Princesse, a long-suffering female who bore the name of Claudine.