d seated herself between the
two as though wishing to protect them with all the majesty of her
person and the affection of her eyes. She was a real mother for her
young friend. While speaking, she was patting Freya's great locks of
hair, which had just escaped from underneath her hat, and Freya,
adapting herself to the tenderness of the situation, cuddled down
against the doctor, assuming the air of a timid and devoted child while
she fixed on Ulysses her eyes of sweet promise.

"You must love her very much, Captain," continued the matron. "Freya
speaks only of you. She has been so unfortunate!... Life has been so
cruel to her!..."

The sailor felt as though he were in the placid bosom of a family. That
lady was discreetly taking everything for granted, speaking to him as
to a son-in-law. Her kindly glance was somewhat melancholy. It was the
sweet sadness of mature people who find the present monotonous, the
future circumscribed, and taking refuge in memories of the past, envy
the young who enjoy the reality of what they can taste only in memory.

"Happy you!... You love each other so much!... Life is worth living
only because of love."

And Freya, as though irresistibly affected by these counsels, threw
one arm around the doctor's globular, corseted figure, while
convulsively clasping Ulysses' right hand.

The gold-rimmed spectacles, with their protecting gleam, appeared to
incite them to even greater intimacy. "You may kiss each other...." And
the imposing dame, trumping up an insignificant pretext, so as to
facilitate their love-making was about to go out when the drapery of
the door between the salon and office was raised.

There entered a man of Ferragut's age, but shorter, with a
weather-beaten face. He was dressed in the English style with
scrupulous correctness. It was plain to be seen that he was accustomed
to take the most excessive and childish interest in everything
referring to the adornment of his person. The suit of gray wool
appeared to have achieved its finishing touch in the harmony of cravat,
socks, and handkerchief sticking out of his pocket,--all in the same
tone. The three pieces were blue, without the slightest variation in
shade, chosen with the exactitude of a man who would undoubtedly suffer
cruel discomfort if obliged to go out into the street with his cravat
of one color and his socks of another. His gloves had the same dark tan
tone as his shoes.

Ferragut thought that this dandy, i