“I will promise anything, senora, though you have imposed an unhappy obligation.”
“Then I think I will say—yes.”
“Bueno!” cries the delighted Don Manada, and, seizing Isabel’s hand, he covers it with passionate kisses.
“Oh, by the way, what time do you sail?”
“At 5 o’clock.”
“Very well. I will send final word to your hotel in the morning. Now, leave me to dream over my folly,” says Mrs. Harding, disengaging the hand which Don Manada still tenderly holds.
Then, as the latter goes off to the wine-room to submerge his happiness in champagne, Isabel leans back in her chair and laughs softly. “The fool,” she sneers. “Well, all men are fools—all but one.”
“And that one?” inquires a voice behind her. She looks up startled, to meet the calm gaze of a man of perhaps 50, with dark hair and mustache slightly tinged with gray and the distinct air of a soldier.
“Ah, who but yourself?” returns Isabel composedly. “Sit down, Gen. Murillo. I have much to tell you.”
The intelligence is plainly of a pleasing nature. Gen. Murillo murmurs “Bueno!” more than once as he listens, and when she finishes he remarks approvingly: “You have done well and may count on my gratitude.”