Finally she rose and, with uncertain hands, opened a suitcase, drawing from its place among filmy fabrics and feminine essentials a small, squat figure of time-corroded clay. The little Inca huaca had perhaps looked with that same unseeing squint upon Princesses of other dynasties so long dead that their heartbreaks and ecstasies were now the same—nothing.
She placed the image before her and rested her chin on one hand, gazing at its grotesque and ancient visage.
Her eyes slowly filled with tears. Again she dropped her face on her arms and the tears overflowed.
Benton and Bristow had been sitting without speech as their motor threaded its way through the traffic along Fourteenth Street, and it was not until the chauffeur had turned north on Fifth Avenue that either spoke. Then Benton roused himself out of seeming lethargy to inquire with suddenness: "Do you remember the bull-fight we saw in Seville?"
His companion looked up, suppressing his surprise at a question so irrelevant.
"You mean the Easter Sunday performance," he asked, "when that negligent banderillero was gored?"
"Just so," assented Benton. "Do you remember the chap we met afterwards at one of the cafés? He was being fêted and flattered for the brilliancy of his work in the ring. His name was Blanco."
"Sure I remember him." Van talked glibly, pleased that the conversation had turned into channels so impersonal. "He was a fine-looking chap with the grace of a Velasquez dancing-girl and the nerve of a bull-terrier. I remember he was more like a grandee than a toreador. We had him dine with us—hard bread—black olives—fish—bad wine—all sorts of native truck. For the rest of our stay in Seville he was our inseparable companion. Do you remember how the street gamins pointed us out? Why, it was like walking down Broadway with your arm linked in that of Jim Jeffries!"
He paused, somewhat disconcerted by his companion's steady gaze; then, taking a fresh start, he went on, talking fast.