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"But I don't see that you have anything on the Kaiser. He said it was over in 1914." "'Don't argue with him, Olga," said young Mrs. Malone. "He's Irish." "Like all Irishers he's longing for something he'll never get," said Fitts, drily. "And what is that?" inquired Mrs. Malone. "Home-rule," said Fitts. Olga Obosky yawned luxuriously. "I am so sleepy. My sandals, Governor Percivail.
Should I not kiss the hand who snatch me from the horrible death? From the Kingdom Come, as the doctor he say to me such a little time ago. And you, Mademoiselle, who have not been save by him from the Kingdom Come, you attend his hands and make him to be greatly comfortable." "I am merely dressing the burns, Madame Obosky," said the other, coldly.
Because he has a most charming and agreeable way of telling me to go to the devil. Is that not so?" "Madame Obosky!" "It comes to the same thing. If you would like me to put it in another form, he has a very courteous way of resisting. He is most aggravating, Miss Clinton. He is most disappointing. He should be like soft clay in our hands, and he isn't. Is that not so?"
Percivail has seen me at my best. He will tell his grandchildren how wonderful Obosky was, and he will think of her to his dying day as something beautiful, not something vile." "Oh, Olga!" "You see, my dear," said the other, composedly, "I wanted to make a good impression on zat virtuous husband of jours. Now he will think of me as the artist, not as the woman. It is much better so, is it not?"
Notwithstanding that he, in his apology, professed to have mistaken her in the darkness for one of the Portuguese immigrant women who didn't understand a word of English, she forgave him quite humbly, and that was going pretty far for Olga Obosky, whose identity ought not to have been a matter of doubt, even on the darkest of nights.
Alas for you, my friend, you may yet have to turn to me for consolation. It is the ill-wind that blows nobody good. Am I not shocking, Mr. Percivail?" They had lost Madame Careni-Amori, who was behind them, shrieking a command through a port-hole to her maid. He looked at her in amazement. "I don't know what to think of you, Madame Obosky." Then he grinned. "Good Lord!
He will smile and close his eyes and if he knew how he would purr like the cat. But, my dear, he do not like to have his hair pulled. Zat is something for you to remember, you and all your determined women, as you call them." "Of course you understand, Madame Obosky, I and the other women, are thinking only of Betty Cruise in this matter."
"Sometimes you say things that cause me to wonder why I don't hate you, Olga Obosky," cried Ruth under her breath. Olga laughed softly. "I repeat zat Golden Rule to myself every night and every morning, Ruthkin," said she, somewhat cryptically. Then they were silent. Conversation on the porch behind them lagged and finally ceased altogether.
"Come," she said, laying her hand on one of his brawny arms, "I have with me the bandages." She sent a swift glance over him, and smiled. "But I see you have not the bottle. Is it in your cabin, Mr. Percivail?" He flushed darkly under his coat of tan. His companions stared for a moment, and then went on. "I am busy," he said. "I haven't the time now, Madame Obosky. Thank you, just the same."
She runs the other way as fast as she can! That is the height of propriety, is it not, Mrs. Spofford?" "I do not quite understand what you mean, Madame Obosky." "Why did he say it was you?" cried Ruth, hot with chagrin. Olga shrugged her shoulders. "He is so very amiable," said she. "I dare say he thought it would please you." Ruth bit her lip.
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