The Dark Star

"I am--married."

"Good Lord!" he said.

"This morning," she added, tasting her ice.

"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 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----"

As she bent forward to taste her ice again he noticed for the first

time the childlike loveliness of her throat and profile; looked at her

with increasing interest, realising that she had grown into a most

engaging creature since he had seen her.

Looking up, and beyond him toward the door, she said: "I think your friend is waiting for you. Had you forgotten him?"

"Oh, that's so!" he exclaimed. Then rising and offering his hand: "I

wish you happiness, Rue. You have my address. When you return, won't

you let me know where you are? Won't you let me know your husband?"

"Yes."

"Please do. You see you and I have a common bond in art, another in

our birthplace. Gayfield folk are your own people and mine. Don't

forget me, Rue."

"No, I won't."

So he took his leave gracefully and went away through the enthralling,

glittering unreality of it all leaving a young girl thrilled,

excited, and deeply impressed with his ease and bearing amid

awe-inspiring scenes in which she, too, desired most ardently to find

herself at ease.

Also she thought of his friend, the Princess Mistchenka. And again, as

before, the name seemed to evoke within her mind a recollection of

having heard it before, very long ago.

She wondered whether Neeland would remember to write, and if he did

she wondered whether a real princess would actually condescend to

invite her to take tea.