“You weren’t by any chance thinking of Babylon?” he laughed, “or Macedonia?”
She shook her head. “Mr. Ribero’s story sticks in my mind. It was so personal, and—I guess I’m a moody creature. Anyway, I find myself thinking of it.”
There was silence for a space, except for the laughter that floated up from the verandah below them, where a few of the members sat smoking, and the softened clicking of ivory from the open windows of the billiard-room. The painter’s fingers, resting on the iron rail, closed over a tendril of clambering moon-flower vine, and nervously twisted the stem.
With an impulsive movement, he leaned forward. His voice was eager.
“Suppose,” he questioned, “suppose you knew such a man—can you imagine any circumstances under which you could make excuses for him?”
She stood a moment weighing the problem. “It’s a hard question,” she replied finally, then added impulsively: “Do you know, I’m afraid I’m a terrible heathen? I can excuse so much where there is courage—the cold sort of chilled-steel courage that he had. What do you think?”
The painter drew his handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped his moist forehead, but, before he could frame his answer, the girl heard a movement in the room, and turned lightly to join her chaperon.
Following her, Saxon found himself saying good-night to a group that included Ribero. As the attaché shook hands, he held Saxon’s somewhat longer than necessary, seeming to glance at a ring, but really studying a scar.
“You are a good story-teller, Mr. Ribero,” said Saxon, quietly.
“Ah,” countered the other quickly, “but that is easy, señor, where one has so good a listener. By the way, señor, did you ever chance to visit Puerto Frio?”