tuation, asked him if he was a sailor. And upon
receiving an affirmative response, she then asked if he was Spanish.

"Yes, Spanish."

Ferragut's answer was followed by a triumphant glance toward the
chaperone, who seemed to relax a little and lose her hostile attitude.
And for the first time she smiled upon the captain with her mouth of
bluish-rose color, her white skin sprinkled with yellow, and her
glasses of phosphorescent splendor.

Meanwhile, the young woman was talking on and on, verifying her
extraordinary powers of memory.

She had traveled all over the world without forgetting a single one of
the places which she had seen. She was able to repeat the titles of the
eighty great hotels in which those who make the world's circuit may
stay. Upon meeting with an old traveling companion, she always
recognized his face immediately, no matter how short a time she had
seen him, and oftentimes she could even recall his name. This last was
what she had been puzzling over, wrinkling her brows with the mental
effort.

"You are a captain?... Your name is?..."

And she smiled suddenly as her doubts came to an end.

"Your name is," she said positively, "Captain Ulysses Ferragut."

In long and agreeable silence she relished the sailor's astonishment.
Then, as though she pitied his stupefaction, she made further
explanations. She had made a trip from Buenos Ayres to Barcelona in a
steamship which he had commanded.

"That was six years ago," she added. "No; seven years ago."

Ferragut, who had been the first to suspect a former acquaintance,
could not recall this woman's name and place among the innumerable
passengers that filled his memory. He thought, nevertheless, that he
must lie for gallantry's sake, insisting that he remembered her well.

"No, Captain; you do not remember me. I was accompanied by my husband
and you never looked at me.... All your attentions on that trip were
devoted to a very handsome widow from Brazil."

She said this in Spanish, a smooth, sing-song Spanish learned in South
America, to which her foreign accent contributed a certain childish
charm. Then she added coquettishly:

"I know you, Captain. Always the same!... That affair of the rose at
Pompeii was very well done.... It was just like you."

The grave lady of the glasses, finding herself forgotten, and unable to
understand a word of the new language employed in the conversation, now
spoke aloud, rolling her eyes in her enthusiasm.