the crazy illusion that a man who had
been shot was made of china, and would be found in broken bits on the
floor.

There was an instantaneous hysterical uproar, dominated by the screams
of women; in the panic which rose there was a rush for the entrance, a
swirl of tearing satin and black dress coats. Then, even before he
heard the concerted derisive amazement, Charles realized that, dazed
by the brandy, the intended murderer had fired at the reflection of
his mark in the glass.

What an utterly ridiculous error; and yet his hands were wet and cold,
his heart pounding. Something of the masking gaiety, the appearance
of innocent high spirits, was stripped from the dining-room of the
Inglaterra, from Havana. There was an imperative need for Andres
Escobar's caution. Charles' equanimity returned: with a steady hand he
poured out more coffee. He was ashamed of his emotion; but, by heaven,
that was the first of such violence he had witnessed; he knew that it
happened, to a large degree its possibility had brought him to Cuba;
yet directly before him, in a square beard and a decorating
ribband!... On the floor were the torn painted gauze and broken ivory
sticks of a woman's fan.

* * * * *

The echo of that futile shot followed Charles Abbott to the Escobars',
where, because of the often repeated names of its principals, he
recognized that the affair was being minutely discussed. The room in
which they sat was octagonal, with the high panels of its walls no
more than frames for towering glass doors set in dark wood; above were
serrated openings, Eastern in form, and the doors were supported by
paired columns of glacial white marble. It was entered through a long
corridor of pillars capped in black onyx with wicker chairs, a tiling
laid in arabesques and potted palms; and opposite was the balcony over
the Prado. A chandelier of crystal, hanging by a chain from the remote
ceiling, with a frosted sparkle like an illuminated wedding cake,
unaffected by prismatic green and red flashes, filled the interior
with a chilly brightness. The chairs of pale gilt set in a circle, the
marble pattern of the floor, the dark heads of the Escobars, looked as
though they were bathed in a vitreous fluid preserving them in a hard
pallor forever.

But it was cool; the beginning constant night breeze fluttered the
window curtains and swayed the pennants of smoke from the cigars.
Domingo Escobar finished what w