The words of Satan seemed to alter everything, from the music to the picture of John Bunny on the screen.
The darkness, filled with native Havana scents, became tinged with the atmosphere of British Respectability. Skelton at the pictures! Why, he ought to have been at the opera or one of the theaters or walking on the alameda digesting his dinner and thinking of Tariff Reform or Anglicanism. It seemed impossible; yet when the light flared up again there was Skelton, sure enough, sitting with another man, and now he was rising, evidently tired of the show, and passing out, followed by his friend, grave as though he had been attending his mother’s funeral instead of the marriage of John Bunny to Flora Finch in a Pullman car with negro accompaniments.
He wore evening clothes, covered by a light overcoat. Ratcliffe rose and, followed by Satan, pursued him, touching him on the shoulder outside and in the full blaze of the lamps.
“Good God!” said Skelton. “Ratcliffe!”
“Just got in,” said Ratcliffe. “Had a ripping time. Where’s the Dryad?”
“Up at the wharf, coaling,” replied Skelton, absorbing Ratcliffe’s rough and ready garb, the cloth cap he was wearing, and Satan. “I’m staying at the Matanzas; but I go aboard tomorrow morning, and we’re off in the evening. What have you been doing with yourself?”
“Oh, having no end of fun. We found an old treasure ship and blew her up and found she was full of skulls and bones. You know Satan?”
Skelton, who had ignored Satan, acknowledged his existence by a little nod.
“Who’s your friend?” asked Ratcliffe, glancing at Skelton’s companion, who had removed himself a few paces.
“Ponsonby—diplomatic service. See here, come on board to lunch tomorrow—one-fifteen.”