Rafael managed in the farewells to kiss the hand of Mrs. Bryton twice, and to be observed by Bryton only once. That was enough of victory for the moment, and when the door was closed he flung himself into a chair and reached again for the decanter.
"Ai! she is delicious—the madama whose husband plans mines and goes on long voyages! How she makes our women look tame!"
"Tah! She is insolent, that is all. We would lock up our women if they had the American way. Drink coffee—not more brandy."
"To the devil with your coffee! And it is not an American way—she is English—the delicious lady!"
"Worse still!" grunted Fernando.
"How?" roared Rafael, straightening up in his chair. "You forget, señor! She is my friend—my very illustrious friend—she is—no matter what she is. Her husband goes on long voyages—and you must apologize to me—you hear? I have the admiration for her—I—"
"You are drunk; that is what ails you, Rafael," said his friend, bluntly. "You think that you are in love with that woman, but you are only drunk."
"Drunk—I? And you call her—call the illustrious lady who is a friend of mine, 'that woman!' Señor, there are two swords on the wall. You take your choice—you—"
Fernando tried to avoid him, but he wrenched the sword from the wall and lunged at him wickedly.
But for a girl who shrieked and rushed from a shadowy doorway, and flung herself on the arm of Rafael, it would have gone ill with Fernando.