"It still would serve as a little post-office, perhaps," laughed the baroness. "But I think its days are done on such errands."
"I will explain something of these errands to the Señora Yturrio," said Calhoun. "I wish you personally to say to that lady, if you will, that Señor Yturrio regarded this little receptacle rather as official than personal post."
For one moment these two women looked at each other, with that on their faces which would be hard to describe. At last the baroness spoke:
"It is not wholly my fault, Señora Yturrio, if your husband gave you cause to think there was more than diplomacy between us. At least, I can say to you that it was the sport of it alone, the intrigue, if you please, which interested me. I trust you will not accuse me beyond this."
A stifled exclamation came from the Doña Lucrezia. I have never seen more sadness nor yet more hatred on a human face than hers displayed. I have said that she was not thoroughbred. She arose now, proud as ever, it is true, but vicious. She declined Helena von Ritz's outstretched hand, and swept us a curtsey. "Adios!" said she. "I go!"
Mr. Calhoun gravely offered her an arm; and so with a rustle of her silks there passed from our lives one unhappy lady who helped make our map for us.
The baroness herself turned. "I ought not to remain," she hesitated.
"Madam," said Mr. Calhoun, "we can not spare you yet."
She flashed upon him a keen look. "It is a young country," said she, "but it raises statesmen. You foolish, dear Americans! One could have loved you all."
"Eh, what?" said Doctor Ward, turning to her. "My dear lady, two of us are too old for that; and as for the other—"