For some reason the drummer blushed slightly.
"It looks to me like she ought to come in there somewhere. Doesn't look like another woman should step in and ... er ... uh...." He waved his hand.
The general was enlightened.
"I see what you mean." He smiled. "That is a quaint American idea of yours."
"It's American," defended Strawbridge stoutly, "but I don't see that it's quaint."
"Perhaps 'quaint' is not the word, but if I may speak impersonally and in no way appear to criticize the American point of view, I should say it is very disrespectful in a man to think of a wife in such a way as this. I feel safe in saying that no Spanish caballero would consider it for a moment."
The drummer stared at this extraordinary statement.
"Disrespectful! Do you think it would be more disrespectful to plan your empire under your wife's inspiration than to set up an establishment like this?"
"Caramba, Señor Strawbridge! certainly! When I enter my wife's presence I am a Spanish gentleman." Here the dictator made a bow to a space which represented his wife. "I think of nothing but her. For example, if Dolores were in this room would our conversation have wandered about like this? Certainly not. Could we have smoked, or talked on risqué topics? Certainly not. The Spaniard keeps his mistresses, Señor Strawbridge, out of sincere respect and devotion to—" he made another slight bow toward the empty space—"to his wife."