There was a rustle of draperies, and Bonita Castro swept into the room with the grace of movement and carriage which characterizes her mother's race. There was, however, nothing spiritual about Miss Castro's beauty, which was of the flesh and of the glowing south, appealing to the senses, delighting the eye; and Dane's pulse throbbed a little faster as she came toward him with a low cry of pleasure. It was the first time he had risen from his trestle cot in the adjoining room. Stooping, she held toward him a great cluster of the spotless African lilies—which, scented ambrosially, spring up wherever decay is rankest—then sank with lithe gracefulness into a chair near his side.
"It is very good to see you better, Don Ilton," she said.
"It is the result of your kindness, señorita. Unfortunately, I don't know how to thank you——"
"Then you will not try." Miss Castro raised a restraining hand. "We do not leave the sick to die. Even if it had been another, there is always enjoined on us the charity."
Dane had lost his sense of humor, and just then Bonita Castro looked all ministering angel, and his attitude expressed rather reverential respect than personal admiration, which, it is possible, did not please the lady so well.
"But you have done so much for one who is almost a stranger," he persisted.
Miss Castro's mood changed swiftly, and spreading out her hands with a gesture of amusement, and a smile which Dane fancied most men would have given much to win, she was again all a woman, and a very alluring one.
"It is true that you English have not the graceful speech. Are we, then, the mere stranger, Don Ilton? Carramba! One takes pride in what one save from the fever, and it was on my lips to call you cariño."
Dane had acquired sufficient knowledge of Castilian in South America to appreciate the possible significance of the substantive; and he afterward remembered that he was not wholly displeased with it.
"You make me a vain man, señorita," he said lightly.