In financial circles, Mr. Brewster was credited with the possession of a cold blue eye and a denatured voice of interrogation, but he seldom succeeded in keeping a twinkle out of the one and a chuckle out of the other when conversing with his daughter.
“Not yet,” observed that damsel calmly.
“Meaning, I suppose I am to understand—”
“Precisely. Haven’t you noticed them looking this way? Presently they’ll be employing all their strategy to meet me. They’ll employ it on you.”
Mr. Brewster surveyed the group dubiously.
“In a country such as this, one can’t be too—too cau—”
“Too particular, as you were saying,” cut in his daughter cheerfully. “Men are scarce—except Fitzhugh, who is rather less scarce than I wish he were lately. You know,” she added, with a covert glance at the adjoining table, “I wouldn’t be surprised if you found yourself an extremely popular papa immediately after dinner. It might even go so far as cigars. Do you suppose that lovely young Caracuñan is a bullfighter?”
“No; I believe he’s a coffee exporter. Less romantic, but more respectable. Quite one of the gilded youth of Caracuña. His name is Raimonda. Fitzhugh knows him. By the way, where on earth is Fitzhugh?”
“Trying to fit a kind and gentlemanly expression over a swollen sense of injury, for a guess,” replied the girl carelessly. “I left him in sweet and lone communion with nature three hours ago.”
“Polly, I wish—”