The stream entered a canal, holding some gaily painted and cushioned row boats, and a green-gold flotilla of Mandarin ducks. There were aviaries of doves, about which strollers were gathered, and a distant somnolent military guard. It was the first time for weeks that Charles had been consciously relaxed, submerged in an unguarded pleasure of being. Pilar might be honest about de Vaca and his purpose, or she might be covering something infinitely more cunning. It would bring her nothing! The very simplicity of his relationship with her was a complete protection; he had no impulse to be serious, nothing in his conversation to guard.
Pilar seemed singularly young here, engaged in staring at and fingering the flowers, reading the sign boards that designated the various pleasances—the Wood of the Princess, the Garden of San Antonio, the Queen’s Glade. Her tactile curiosity was insatiable, she trailed her sensitive hands over every strange surface that offered. Then, with her airy skirt momentarily caught on a spear of bearded grass, he saw, below her knee, under the white stocking, the impression of a blade, narrow and wicked. La Clavel had carried a knife in that manner, many women, he had no doubt, did; but in Pilar its stealthy subdued gleam affected him unpleasantly. It presented a sharp mocking contrast to all that, in connection with her, had been running happily through his mind.
“I thought you were a moth, soft and white,” he told her; “but it appears that you are a wasp in disguise—I hope it won’t occur to you to sting me.”
Serenely she resettled her skirt. “Did you look for a scapular? Young men’s eyes should be on the sky.” Then she put an arm through his. “It was never there for you ... a moth soft and white. But I don’t care for that.” Her gliding magnetic touch again passed, like the fall 192 of a leaf, over his cheek. Affecting not to notice it he lighted a thin cigar; he’d have to watch Pilar de Lima. Or was it himself who needed care? The feeling of detachment, of security, was pierced by a more acute emotion, a sensation that resembled the traced point of her knife. She asked, nearing the place where they were to meet the quitrin, when she might see him again; and mechanically he suggested that evening, after the music in the Plaza de Armas.
Returning to Ancha del Norte Street, his face was grave, almost concerned, but he was made happy by finding Andrés Escobar in his room. Andrés, with the window shades lowered, was lounging and smoking in his fine cambric shirt sleeves. He had a business of routine to communicate, and then he listened, censoriously, to Charles’ account of his afternoon.
“She is a little devil, of course, with her gartered steel, but she amuses me. I have the shadow of an idea that she was truthful about de Vaca; and the ruby would be an excellent joke.”
“I cannot approve of any of this,” Andrés decided; “it has so many hidden possibilities—the Spaniards are so hellish cunning. To be candid with you, I can’t understand why they have neglected 193 you so long. You are, Charles, fairly conspicuous. Perhaps it is because they hope, in the end, to get information from you. In that case, if we were in danger, I would shoot you with my own hand. Drop this Chinese water lily; their stems are always in the mud.”
“On the contrary, you must see her,” Charles Abbott insisted. “I’ve explained that she can’t hurt us; and we may get something floated the other way.” He was aware of an indefinable resentment at Andrés’ attitude: his love for him was all that prevented the acerbity of a voiced irritation.