“What in the world did all that mean?” he said. “Did I really offend his national pride by turning sick at the dying horses?”
“That is not all,” said Alvar hurriedly; “he hates the English and us all; he would like to kill me.”
“Ah, ha, Alvar, it is my turn to talk about ‘excitement’ now.”
“Well, I do not understand you. When you came home you could not be still; you seemed crazy. And now, when any gentleman would be enraged, you laugh.”
“Oh, I hate quarrels. And besides,” shrugging his shoulders, “why in the world should I care for such mock-heroics as that?”
“Ah, Cherry,” said Mr Stanforth, “there spoke the very essence of English scorn.”
Cheriton coloured.
“True,” he said, candidly, “Don Manoel had a right to be angry with me, after all. But I don’t mean it. I dare say he isn’t half a bad fellow.”
“Ah, you are coughing. You will be tired out; and I am sure that you will not sleep,” said Alvar. “Come, you shall not talk any more about anything.”
“Very wise advice,” said Mr Stanforth, “especially as Gipsy has persuaded the whole party to come to-morrow to see my sketches, and drink English ‘afternoon tea.’ So rest now in preparation.”