in shadow, with its screen of plants in vases
along the balustrade, holding out motionless blossoms, and all the glass
doors of the reception-rooms thrown open. A jingle of spurs died out at
the further end.

Basilio, standing aside against the wall, said in a soft tone to
the passing ladies, "The Senor Administrador is just back from the
mountain."

In the great sala, with its groups of ancient Spanish and modern
European furniture making as if different centres under the high white
spread of the ceiling, the silver and porcelain of the tea-service
gleamed among a cluster of dwarf chairs, like a bit of a lady's boudoir,
putting in a note of feminine and intimate delicacy.

Don Jose in his rocking-chair placed his hat on his lap, and Decoud
walked up and down the whole length of the room, passing between tables
loaded with knick-knacks and almost disappearing behind the high backs
of leathern sofas. He was thinking of the angry face of Antonia; he was
confident that he would make his peace with her. He had not stayed in
Sulaco to quarrel with Antonia.

Martin Decoud was angry with himself. All he saw and heard going
on around him exasperated the preconceived views of his European
civilization. To contemplate revolutions from the distance of the
Parisian Boulevards was quite another matter. Here on the spot it was
not possible to dismiss their tragic comedy with the expression, "_Quelle
farce!_"

The reality of the political action, such as it was, seemed closer, and
acquired poignancy by Antonia's belief in the cause. Its crudeness hurt
his feelings. He was surprised at his own sensitiveness.

"I suppose I am more of a Costaguanero than I would have believed
possible," he thought to himself.

His disdain grew like a reaction of his scepticism against the action
into which he was forced by his infatuation for Antonia. He soothed
himself by saying he was not a patriot, but a lover.

The ladies came in bareheaded, and Mrs. Gould sank low before the little
tea-table. Antonia took up her usual place at the reception hour--the
corner of a leathern couch, with a rigid grace in her pose and a fan in
her hand. Decoud, swerving from the straight line of his march, came to
lean over the high back of her seat.

For a long time he talked into her ear from behind, softly, with a half
smile and an air of apologetic familiarity. Her fan lay half grasped on
her knees. She never looked at him. His rapid utterance grew more an