A CUBAN MORNING.
[Scene, the shady piazza of the hotel at Marianao, Cuba. Time, nine o’clock on a hot March morning. Miss Peltonville and Arthur Chester tête-à-tête.]
She. Why did you follow us to Cuba?
He. I have already told you that I thought you were in Florida.
She. Yes? And so you came to Marianao, where nobody comes at this time of year, in order that you might be perfectly safe from an encounter, I suppose.
He. Oh, I—that is; precisely.
She. I had a letter from Annie Cleaves yesterday.
He. Had you?