“Of course,” added Freeman, smiling benevolently upon him, “I judge only from such specimens of the modern Mexican as I happen to meet with.”
Don Miguel’s sallow countenance turned greenish white. But, before he could make a reply, Meschines, who scented mischief in the air, and divined that the gentler sex must somehow be at the bottom of it, struck in.
“You may consider yourself lucky, Harvey, in making the acquaintance of a gentleman like Senor de Mendoza, who exemplifies the undimmed virtues of Cortez and Torquemada. For my part, I brought him here in the hope that he might be able to throw some light on the mystery of this embroidered garment, which I see you’ve been examining. What do you say, Don Miguel? Have these designs any significance beyond mere ornament? Anything in the nature of hieroglyphics?”
The senor was obliged to examine, and to enter into a discussion, though, of course, his ignorance of the subject in dispute was as the depths of that abyss which has no bottom. Miriam, who was not fond of Don Miguel, but who felt constrained to exceptional courtesy in view of Freeman’s unwarrantable attack upon him, stood beside him and the Professor; and Freeman and Grace were thus left to fight it out with each other.
But Grace had drawn her own conclusions from what had passed. Freeman had insulted Don Miguel. Wherefore? Obviously, it could only be because he thought that she was flirting with him. In other words, Freeman was jealous; and to be jealous is to love. Now, Grace was so constituted that, though she did not like to play second fiddle herself, yet she had no objection to monopolizing all the members of the male species who might happen, at a given moment, to be in sight.
She had, consequently, already forgiven Freeman for his apparent unfaithfulness to her, by reason of his manifest jealousy of Don Miguel. As a matter of fact, he was not jealous, and he was unfaithful; but fate had decreed that there should be, for the moment, a game of cross-purposes; and the decrees of fate are incorrigible.
“I had no idea you were so savage,” she said, softly.
“I’m not savage,” replied Freeman. “I am bored.”
“Well, I don’t know as I can blame you,” said Grace, still more softly: she fancied he was referring to Miriam. “I don’t much like Spanish mixtures myself.”
“One has to take what one can get,” said Freeman, referring to Don Miguel.