Paulo had been pleased to arrange herself--bright
with the persevering sunshine. It was decorated, like his bedroom, with
the restrained richness of the mid-eighteenth century. With discretion,
Paulo had slightly adapted the accessories of the room to please by
suggestion the susceptibilities of its occupant. A marble bust of Caesar
stood upon the dwarf bookcase. A copy of a famous portrait of Napoleon
was on one of the walls; on another an engraving of Dr. Francia still
more delicately associated great leaders with South America. At a table
in one corner of the room--a table honeycombed with drawers and
pigeon-holes, and covered with papers, letters, documents of all
kinds--Hamilton sat writing rapidly. Another table nearer the window,
set apart for the Dictator's own use, had everything ready for
business--had, moreover, in a graceful bowl of tinted glass, a large
yellow carnation, his favourite flower, the flower which had come to be
the badge of those of his inclining. This, again, was a touch of Miss
Paulo's sympathetic handiwork.

The Dictator, whose mood had brightened, smiled again at this little
proof of personal interest in his welfare. As he entered, Hamilton
dropped his pen, sprang to his feet, and advanced respectfully to greet
him. The Dictator pointed to the yellow carnation.

'The way of the exiled autocrat is made smooth for him here, at least,'
he said.

Hamilton inclined his head gravely. 'Mr. Paulo knows what is due,' he
answered, 'to John Ericson, to the victor of San Felipe and the Dictator
of Gloria. He knows how to entertain one who is by right, if not in
fact, a reigning sovereign.'

'He hangs out our banner on the outer wall,' said Ericson, with an
assumed gravity as great as Hamilton's own. Then he burst into a laugh
and said, 'My dear Hamilton, it's all very well to talk of the victor of
San Felipe and the Dictator of Gloria. But the victor of San Felipe is
the victim of the Plaza Nacional, and the Dictator of Gloria is at
present but one inconsiderable item added to the exile world of London,
one more of the many refugees who hide their heads here, and are unnoted
and unknown.'

His voice had fallen a little as his sentences succeeded each other, and
the mirth in his voice had a bitter ring in it when he ended. His eye
ranged from the bust to the picture, and from the picture to the
engraving contemplatively.

Something in the contemplation appeared to cheer him, for his look was
br