A Woman's Will. Warner Anne

to draw a deep breath and sigh.

      “Where is he stationed?” her friend inquired.

      “Rome; and he hasn’t a cent beyond his pay, so we can’t think of any future which makes him so blue.”

      “Poor fellow! do you consider yourself engaged to him?”

      “Of course I’m engaged to him. He came a whole day’s journey to propose. You don’t suppose I’d say ‘no’ to a chap who was awfully hard up, and then took a long, expensive trip just on my account! Besides, I’m most desperately in love with him, and he is the kind of man who couldn’t come to time any other way. He is a most awfully good sort – the sort that believe in everything. Why, he has such a high opinion of me that it’s almost depressing at times. I can’t live up to a high opinion; it’s all I can do to keep above a low one.”

      “But how will it come out, Molly?”

      “It won’t come out at all unless you tell it. No one else knows. He can’t say anything without compromising himself, and I’m not likely to let it out unless I some day pull up the wrong locket by accident.”

      “But don’t it trouble you?”

      “Trouble me! Why should it trouble me? It’s that old Russian woman who troubles me. I’d be idiotic to add to my miseries by thinking up any other torments while I’m around with her. Here we are at the Quai, – that’s the hotel yonder. And I’ve talked one continuous stream ever since we left the Gare and you’ve never said a word. Begin right off and tell me something about yourself. Who have you met since you came over in May? Of course you’ve met some one. Who?”

      “An old French marquis,” Rosina told her thoughtfully.

      “And no one else?”

      “Oh, yes, of course there were loads of others. But this was such a dear old gentleman, when he kissed my hand – well, really, I almost felt like a princess.”

      “But not like a marchioness?”

      “Oh, dear no! I wouldn’t think of undertaking the gout before I’m thirty.”

      “The Lord preserve me from dear old men!” Molly ejaculated with fervor. “Why, I had a baron propose to me last winter; he was actually so shaky that his valet was always in attendance to stand him up and sit him down. While he was pouring out his remnant of a heart I kept expecting to see the valet come running in to throw him at my knees. He was over eighty and awfully rich, but that servant of his was too careful and conscientious for me to dare risk it, – a man like that with devoted attention and plenty of rare beef might live ten years, you know, – so I told him ‘no,’ and the valet came in and stood him up and led him away.”

      The cab coming to a standstill before the hotel just at this moment, the two young women were forced to interrupt their conversation, and undertake the arduous labor of preparing for déjeuner. Ottillie was just laying out the contents of the travelling toilet-case when her mistress came in to be dressed, and it was quite two hours later before any opportunity presented itself for renewing their talk. Then Molly came into the salon of the blue-and-white suite which the friends shared, and they curled up together on the divan, prepared to spend one of those infinitely delightful hours which are only known to two thoroughly congenial women who have had the rare luck of chancing to know one another well.

      Molly began by winding her arm about her friend’s shoulders and kissing her warmly.

      “’Tis like Paradise to be with you instead of that fussy old woman,” she said warmly; “now go on with what you were telling me in the carriage, – the marquis, you know.”

      “There isn’t any more to tell you about him, he’s all over, but I’ll tell you about some one else, if you’ll be good.”

      “I’ll be good. Who, and where, and which, and what is the other?”

      “I haven’t any faith in you, I’m afraid you will tease me.”

      “Did I ever tease you before?”

      “I was married then and I didn’t mind. I feel differently now.”

      “I promise not to tease you one bit. Where did you meet him?”

      “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 Saturday, 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 attitude 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.

      “Saturday 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