"Yas—mais de barge, de Cleopatra; dey say she is be'-u-tiful!"
"Cleopatra! For w'at he di'n' name her somet'ing sensible?"
"Dat is not only sensible—it is diplomatic. You know, w'en a man has only a daughter and a step-wife—w'at is de matter wid me to-night? You understand me. I say, in—well, in some cases, to discriminate, it is enough to drive a man to—"
"Oh, don't say dat, Felix."
"Let me finish, will you? I say it is one of dose indelicate situations dat drive a man to dodge! An' w'en he can dodge into history and romance at once, so much de better! An' Cleopatra, it sound well for a barge. An' so, really, if de beautiful daughter should be de queen an' dey could arrange one house-party—"
"Suppose, Felix, ol' man, you would bring out yo' magnolia-tree once more, you don't t'ink de li'l' bird would come again an' stan' on one limb an' maybe—"
"Ah, no. I am sure not. If dey had a grain of salt in dat story, I would try. I would put it on his tail. Mais, how can you catch a bird widout salt?"
So idly, playfully, the talk rippled on, ever insensibly flavored with rich romance of life, even as the fitful breeze skirting the shores held, in shy suspension, an occasional hint of orange-blossoms or of the Cuban fruits which, heaping the luggers in the slanting sun, laid their gay bouquets of color against the river's breast.
It is many years since the maid Agnes Le Duc, on her way to coronation at the carnival, stood while the sun went down in all her vestal beauty on deck of the Laurel Hill, and smiled through tears of tenderness at life as half revealed to her.