ething. What was it? You
mean--"

"I don't mean anything," said Molly; "if he don't mean anything and you
don't mean anything, how in Heaven's name could _I_ mean anything?"

"I only met him Saturday, you know," Rosina reminded her. "And this is
Monday," she reminded her further. "Nothing ever can happen in such a
short time," she wound up airily.

"No," said Molly thoughtfully, "to be sure you can die and they can bury
you between Saturday 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 Saturday 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 attitude.

"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."