“Then the humor of the thing struck me and I almost laughed outright. It was so ridiculous, and such a joke on the runaways, who were cooped up in a little fifty-foot pearling yawl or stowed away in a Nipa hut in some little island, when they might have been so comfortable!
“‘Did you ever explain your sentiments regarding this affair to the Countess?’ I inquired.
“‘Doctor!’ he protested, ‘one cannot be indelicate! Certainly not! Could she not have inferred it from my behavior?’
“‘I am afraid,’ said I, ‘that her inferences were less flattering. Mine were—permit me to apologize.’
“He began to yelp again. ‘She was so beautiful!—so interesting—such a typical American woman—a frank and ignorant young savage! It was a joy to be with her, Doctor; a joy to watch the primitive workings of her mind—and her little efforts at deception I found adorable. She was transparent as a naughty child——’ He began to blubber.
“‘She appears to have possessed certain rudiments of guile,’ I replied. ‘You have taken too much for granted. A Parisienne would have understood; the ethical situation was too delicate for an American; she was too narrow-minded to combine adultery and domestic tranquillity.’
“‘They are so crude, these Americans!’ he wailed. ‘So crude!’
“An extraordinary situation, Doctor, and yet reasonable when one pauses to consider. The Count was highly esthetic; his wife charmed him in really a very elevated way; he enjoyed her beauty, her society, her bonhomie, no doubt her care and strength, for she was kind-hearted where her passions were not concerned; he may have leaned upon her vigorous young vitality. She and the tomb could not be pictured in the same frame. He appreciated her; wanted her to be happy; was thoroughly good to her, and did not mean that because she was tied to a broken invalid she should be deprived of the fullness of life. An archaic and rather pathetic casuistry, was it not?
“I pondered. ‘They are in a small sail-boat,’ thought I, and glanced at the map of the archipelago hanging from the wall. ‘They will, of course, make for Zamboanga, but on the way they are apt to stop at Port Isabella.’ You know the place, Doctor—in Basilan; a beautiful spot: the little village, the hot slope of open country rolling gradually upward to meet the cool forests on the heights; the late sun painting it all golden and shining back from the towering boles that form the ramparts of the primeval woods? They were most apt to be in Basilan.
“‘I think we can find them,’ said I. ‘There should be no great difficulty in coaxing back two naughty children with the sweets you have to offer.’