Given a little time and he recovered, at least in a fair measure, the coolness that usually characterized his actions.
He even lighted a cheroot, realizing that a Spaniard such as he represented would appear singular without a weed of some sort dangling from his lip.
Apparently Julio had lost all interest in the military strains that throbbed and pulsated upon the night air—when lovely women entered the game the bolero dancer threw other thoughts to the four winds—he might be a lover of music but above all else he was a beau.
The couple evidently intended quitting the plaza, and plunging down into one of the streets that would lead them to that other section of town, where fashion never troubled, and where the poorer element had their quarters—a section that would especially appeal to the eye of the artist and the newspaperman seeking quaint scenes for the portrayal of Spanish characteristics.
Roderic was quite ready to follow—indeed, in his present frame of mind it would not matter whither he went so long as that lithesome figure tantalized him like a will-o'-the-wisp.
All he wanted was an opportunity to see her face, to satisfy himself one way or the other, to quell this devilish spirit raging in his breast, or failing that to let the fury find an outlet.
One way or the other, however fortune might decide it, he felt that a result must be reached.
Having taken the reins in his hands again and curbed the unruly team that would have carried him headlong to a speedy rupture of the peace, Roderic became outwardly cool.
He aroused his old professional instincts to action, and endeavored to forget that the case was more to him than the usual run.
Thus he noticed that while Julio could never be anything but a gallant and a beau, he did not attempt any familiarities with his companion—that there seemed to be a certain amount of respect on his part such as he seldom showed toward those who had succumbed to the charm of his fascinating presence.