m curiously. There
had been no co-operation between lips and eyes. The eyes had opened a
little wider, as if with a stimulated rapaciousness. The lips had opened
to the extent of a nicely achieved, symmetrical crescent of teeth. It made
Harboro think of a carefully constructed Jack-o'-Lantern.

Sylvia had asked him if he wouldn't help in making a choice, but he had
looked slightly alarmed, and had resolutely taken a seat which afforded a
view of the big _Casa Blanca_ across the way: an emporium conducted on a
big scale by Germans. He even became oblivious to the discussion on the
other side of the partition, where Sylvia and madame presently entered
upon the preliminaries of the business in hand.

The street was quite familiar to him. There had been a year or so, long
ago, when he had "made" Piedras Negras, as railroaders say, twice a week.
He hadn't liked the town very well. He saw its vice rather than its
romance. He had attended one bullfight, and had left his seat in disgust
when he saw a lot of men and women of seeming gentility applauding a silly
fellow whose sole stock in trade was an unblushing vanity.

His imagination travelled on beyond the bull-pen, to the shabby
dance-halls along the river. It was a custom for Americans to visit the
dance-halls at least once. He had gone into them repeatedly. Other
railroaders who were his associates enjoyed going into these places, and
Harboro, rather than be alone in the town, had followed disinterestedly in
their wake, and had looked on with cold, contemplative eyes at the
disorderly picture they presented: unfortunate Mexican girls dancing with
cowboys and railroaders and soldiers and nondescripts. Three Mexicans,
with harp, violin, and 'cello had supplied the music: the everlasting
national airs. It seemed to Harboro that the whole republic spent half its
time within hearing of _Sobre las Olas_, and _La Paloma_, and _La
Golondrina_. He had heard so much of the emotional noises vibrating across
the land that when he got away from the throb of his engine, into some
silent place, it seemed to him that his ears reverberated with flutes and
strings, rather than the song of steam, which he understood and respected.
He had got the impression that music smelled bad--like stale wine and
burning corn-husks and scented tobacco and easily perishable fruits.

He remembered the only woman who had ever made an impression upon him down
in those dance-halls: an overmature creature, un