" was the reply; and then, after a pause, "Here he
comes. He is attended by three aides-de-camp and a squadron of orderlies.
He carries his head very high."

"But his feet are on the ground," commented Sarrion, who was rolling
himself a cigarette. "Shall we invite him to come with us?"

"Yes."

General Pacheco was one of those soldiers of the fifties who owed their
success to a handsome face. He wore a huge moustache, curling to his
eyes, and had the air of an invincible conqueror--of hearts. He had
dined. He was going to take up his new command in the North. He walked,
as the French say, on air, and he certainly swaggered in his gait on that
thin base. He was hardly surprised to see the Count Sarrion, one of the
exclusives who had never accepted Queen Isabella's new military
aristocracy, with his hat in one hand and the other extended towards him,
on the platform awaiting his arrival.

"You will travel with us," said Sarrion. And the General accepted,
looking round to see that his attendants were duly impressed.

"I find," he said, seating himself and accepting a cigarette from
Sarrion, "that each new success in life brings me new friends."

"Making it necessary to abandon the old ones," suggested Sarrion.

"No, no," laughed the General, with a cackle, and a patronising hand
upheld against the mere thought. "One only adds to the number as one goes
on; just as one adds to a little purse against the change of fortune,
eh?"

And he looked from one to the other still, brown face with a cunning
twinkle. Sarrion was a man of the world. He knew that this expansiveness
would not last. It would probably give way to melancholy or somnolence in
the course of half an hour. These things are a matter of the digestion.
And many vows of friendship are made by perfectly sober persons who have
dined, with a sincerity which passes off next morning. The milk of human
kindness should be allowed to stand overnight in order to prove its
quality.

"Ah," said Sarrion, "you speak from a happy experience."

"No, no," protested the other, gravely. "It is a small thing--a mere
bagatelle in the French Rentes--but one sees one's opportunities, one
sees one's opportunities."

He made a gesture with the two fingers that held his cigarette, which
seemed to be a warning to the Sarrions not to make any mistake as to the
shrewdness of him who spoke to them.

"Speak for yourself," said Sarrion, with a laugh.

"I do," insisted the other, lea