mination, into
Charles' half consumed ice.

"If you were a man," he said, "you could break them up with your
teeth."

The other quietly put the plate away and lighted a cigarette. He
smiled, as if in appreciation of his humor, at the officer.

"But I'll bet you twenty doblons you can't break one," he added.

Santacilla replied that he was considering having Charles Abbott
deported.

"You are so dangerous," he explained, with the grimace that served him
as a smile. "I often consult with our Captain-General. 'This Abbott,'
he says; 'Agramonte is nothing, but I am afraid of him. He is wise, he
is deep.' And then we think what can be done with you--a tap on the
head, not too hard and not far from the ear, would make you as gentle
as a kitten. I have had it done; really it is a favor, since then you
would forget all your trouble, the problems of state. You'd cry if I
raised a finger at you." La Clavel interrupted him to swear at his
degraded imagination. "And the figure in the jota!" he turned to her.
"You know that the Spaniards of birth have, as well as their own, the
blood of the Moriscos. What they were, what the East is, with women,
I beg you to remember.

"This new treatment of women is very regrettable. I am a little late
for absolute happiness; too late, for example, to fasten your tongue
with a copper wire to the tongue across the table from you. Lovers,
you see, joined at last." He talked while he ate, in a manner wholly
delicate, minute fragile dulces, cakes, glazed in green and pink, and
ornamental confections of almond paste. Unperturbed, La Clavel found
him comparable to a number of appalling objects and states. Coarse,
was all that he replied.

"You are a peasant, a beast, and what you say is merely stupid. There
this Abbott is your superior--he has a trace, a suspicion, of blood. I
am wondering," he was addressing Charles again. "It seems impossible
that you are as dull as you appear; there is more, perhaps, than meets
the eye. Your friendship with the Escobars broke up very suddenly; and
you never see Floret and Quintara with his borrowed French airs. They
are nothing, it is true, yet they have a little Castilian, they are
better than the avaricious fools at the United States Club. Of course,
if you are in love with this cow gone mad, a great deal is accounted
for." He wiped his fingers first on a serviette and then on a sheer
web of linen marked with a coronet and his cipher.

"Pah!" he exclaimed