“Fernando?”

“Ah-h!”

Miss Sinquier got up.

She must compose herself for dinner—wash off the blood.

Poor Fernan!

She glanced about her, a trifle Spanish still.

From a clothes-peg something hanging seemed to implore.

“To see me? Why, bless you. Yes!”

With an impetuous, pretty gesture she flung it upon a couch.

“How do I like America?”