And these men who, two hours before had never seen each other, stood for a moment close together, antagonistic, as if they had been life-long enemies, one short, dapper and glaring upward, the other towering heavily, and looking down in contempt and anger.
Mr. d'Alcacer, without taking his eyes off them, bent low over the deck chair.
“Have you ever seen a man dashing himself at a stone wall?” he asked, confidentially.
“No,” said Mrs. Travers, gazing straight before her above the slow flutter of the fan. “No, I did not know it was ever done; men burrow under or slip round quietly while they look the other way.”
“Ah! you define diplomacy,” murmured d'Alcacer. “A little of it here would do no harm. But our picturesque visitor has none of it. I've a great liking for him.”
“Already!” breathed out Mrs. Travers, with a smile that touched her lips with its bright wing and was flown almost before it could be seen.
“There is liking at first sight,” affirmed d'Alcacer, “as well as love at first sight—the coup de foudre—you know.”
She looked up for a moment, and he went on, gravely: “I think it is the truest, the most profound of sentiments. You do not love because of what is in the other. You love because of something that is in you—something alive—in yourself.” He struck his breast lightly with the tip of one finger. “A capacity in you. And not everyone may have it—not everyone deserves to be touched by fire from heaven.”
“And die,” she said.
He made a slight movement.