"Madame is of a wonderfully strong constitution.
An heiress of nature's choicest favors," the happy Galen floridly
said, as he took his leave.
"So she is," grimly assented Hawke.
The gossipy boniface was already spreading such meager details of
the sudden seizure as he had been able to pick up, and, the words
"Polish noblewoman," "Italian marchesa," "French countess," were
tossed about freely in the light froth of the conversation in the
ladies' drawing-room.
Meanwhile, Alan Hawke was smoking a meditative cigar alone, while
pacing the old Cantonal high road before the Faucon. "I think I will
remain on picket here," he mused. "This fiddler fellow, Wieniawski,
must not meet her. She must be led on to leave here at once.
Constitution, nerve, aplomb; she has them all. She should have been
born a man. What a soldier! One of nature's mistakes--man's mental
organization, woman's soft, flooding emotions, and beauty's fiery
passions."
"I must pump Casimir. He will be safely nailed to the platform
by his duties, from eight to ten. I will not leave her a moment,
however, till he has the baton in his hand. I will then watch
him until ten--meet him down there, and, if he meets her after we
separate for the night, he is a smarter Pole than I take him for.
And now I must go and frighten her away from here."
Major Hawke was quick to note all the outer indications of man's
varying fortunes.
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