The drummer remained silent. He did not mean to discuss with Father Benicio his affairs with the señora. He smoked stolidly, staring into the green and gold of the plaza. The early morning sunshine gave it a tender glow. The cleric placed his unlighted cigar gently on the edge of the table, and did not pick it up any more.
"Whom I am really thinking about, Señor Strawbridge, is my daughter, Dolores Avilon Fombombo."
Strawbridge frowned slightly as if at some disagreeable flavor in his tobacco.
"Did she go and tell you everything?"
"Naturally, señor. What else could she do?"
The drummer flung his head about and looked at the father.
"Good Lord! in a case like this—" He broke off abruptly. "Well, what are you going to do about it?"
"I? Nothing. I advised my daughter not to do this rash thing which you and she contemplate."
"Rash! After six years of insult and abuse!"