CHAPTER XXX
THREE days passed. Don Juan Cafetéro had been buried with all the pomp and circumstance of a national hero; Mother Jenks, too, had gone to her appointed resting-place, and El Buen Amigo had been closed forever. Ricardo had issued a proclamation announcing himself provisional president of Sobrante; a convention of revolutionary leaders had been held, and a provisional cabinet selected. A day for the national elections had been named; the wreckage of the brief revolution had been cleared away, and the wheels of government were once more revolving freely and noiselessly. And while all of this had been going on, John Stuart Webster had lain on his back, staring at the palace ceiling and absolutely forbidden to receive visitors. He was still engaged in this mild form of gymnastics on the third day when the door of his room opened and Dolores looked in on him.
“Good evening, Caliph,” she called. “Aren't you dead yet?”
It was exactly the tone she should have adopted to get the best results, for Webster had been mentally and physically ill since she had seen him last, and needed some such pleasantry as this to lift him out of his gloomy mood. He grinned at her boyishly.
“No, I'm not dead. On the contrary, I'm feeling real chirpy. Won't you come in and visit for a while, Miss Ruey?”
“Well, since you've invited me, I shall accept.” Entering, she stood beside his bed and took the hand he extended toward Her. “This is the first opportunity I've had, Miss Ruey,” he began, “to apologize for the shock I gave you the other day. I should have come back to you as I promised, instead of getting into a fight and scaring you half to death. I hope you'll forgive me, because I'm paying for my fun now—with interest.”
“Very well, Caliph. I'll forgive you—on one condition.”
“Who am I to resist having a condition imposed upon me? Name your terms. I shall obey.”