the lower
floor, the high-hung little balcony, the jealous open space--he had
pronounced them all very Spanish. He now looked about him again--at the
dumb old house, the silvery sheen of the lagoon, the feathery tops of
the palmettoes on Patricio opposite, the blue sky, and the sunny sea
stretching eastward to Africa. "I ask nothing more," he said at last.
"_This_ is content."

His companion glanced at him. "You do look wonderfully contented," she
commented.

"It amuses you? Perhaps it vexes you?"

"Neither. I was only wondering what there could be here to make you so
contented."

This little speech pleased the man beside her highly. He said to himself
that in the mind of a girl accustomed to the ways of the world, it would
have belonged to the list of speeches too obvious in application to be
made; while a little country coquette would have said it purposely. But
Garda Thorne had spoken both naturally and indifferently, without
thinking or caring as to what he might say in reply.

"I was remembering," he answered, "that at home all the rivers are
frozen over, not to speak of the water-pipes, and that ice-blocks are
grinding against each other in the harbor; is it any wonder, then, that
in this charming air I should be content? But there are various degrees
even in contentment, and I should reach a higher one still if you would
only let mo carry that umbrella." For she had opened it, and was holding
it as women will, not high enough to admit him under its shade, but at
just the angle that kept him effectually at a distance on account of the
points which were dangerously on a level, now with his hat, now with his
collar, now with some undefended portion of his face. He had always
admired the serenity with which women will pass through a crowded
street, raking all the passers-by as they go with an umbrella held at
just that height, the height that suits themselves; smilingly and with
agreeable countenances they advance, without the least conception,
apparently, of the wild dodging they force upon all persons taller than
themselves, of the wrath and havoc they are leaving behind them.

"No man knows how to hold a sun-umbrella," answered Garda. "To begin
with, he never has the least idea where the sun is."

"I have learned that when you say 'To begin with,' there is small hope
for us. Might I offer the suggestion, humbly, that there may be other
methods of holding umbrellas in existence, besides those prevalent in