Bon—ito!—It—was—Bon—ito—come—at—last!
It was Bonito, true enough; yet, for all the purposes of intrigue, not quite the crude diplomatist a guilty conscience pictured him. He had come, in fact, to condole the English signorina on her threatened estate—come, it seemed, like a suitor, with an offer in his hand, and a flower in his rusty buttonhole. His shoes were tied; his looks commiserating and sympathetic as he could transform them. He was to play a deep part, this old ape of mystics; and Molly was his destined catspaw. Descending from that scene above, we find him already well launched upon his course.
He sits, watchful and guarded. She stands before him, one hand to her storming breast, the other leaned for support upon a chair-back.
“Say it again,” she whispered. “Perhaps I didn’t hear aright.”
Bonito licked his lips.
“He’s a suitor for her hand.”
She started, as if stung.
“But not an accepted one?”
He rubbed his gritty chin thoughtfully.
“They say he was rebuffed. What then? You women will claim that privilege—once or twice. Persistence, by report, will always carry ye. Perhaps you know. He’s a forceful suitor. You’d do well, by my advice, to forestall the inevitable—drop the old shadow for the new substance.”