“No, really. You must forgive me. One must be serious sometimes.” He paused. She turned her head a little; her blue eyes glided slowly towards him, slightly upwards, mollified and questioning.
“You can't think I am serious when I call Montero a gran' bestia every second day in the Porvenir? That is not a serious occupation. No occupation is serious, not even when a bullet through the heart is the penalty of failure!”
Her hand closed firmly on her fan.
“Some reason, you understand, I mean some sense, may creep into thinking; some glimpse of truth. I mean some effective truth, for which there is no room in politics or journalism. I happen to have said what I thought. And you are angry! If you do me the kindness to think a little you will see that I spoke like a patriot.”
She opened her red lips for the first time, not unkindly.
“Yes, but you never see the aim. Men must be used as they are. I suppose nobody is really disinterested, unless, perhaps, you, Don Martin.”
“God forbid! It's the last thing I should like you to believe of me.” He spoke lightly, and paused.
She began to fan herself with a slow movement without raising her hand. After a time he whispered passionately—
“Antonia!”
She smiled, and extended her hand after the English manner towards Charles Gould, who was bowing before her; while Decoud, with his elbows spread on the back of the sofa, dropped his eyes and murmured, “Bonjour.”