The german was a very dazzling and magnificent affair. The hall was large and beautiful, splendidly lighted and most lavishly decorated. The gathering was of people who were well satisfied with themselves and had every reason to be so. John Henderson was as well satisfied with himself as any man in the room. It gave him keen pleasure to be in that set and to know that he had won his way into it. His life was now one made delightful by every luxury and by the constant sensation of success. Money came to him faster than he had any use for it and friends gave him the most flattering evidences that he was valued and liked. He was a tall strong young man, well-knit and lithe. His clothes became him and he danced perfectly. He was not merely among these courtly people, but welcome there. His partner’s name had a decidedly patrician sound. And she was as handsome as any girl in the room, he said to himself, save one. For opposite him sat Miss Millicent Wareham. Her beauty was at its best in her yellow satin ball-dress, and she looked proud and elate. He had encountered her often recently, and they had been more than once presented to each other, but had exchanged no words save the formal acknowledgement of an introduction. He could not make out whether she disliked him or merely reflected her brother’s manifest antagonism. He took care not to look at her openly, but he glanced toward her furtively very often. Toward the end of the dancing she saw him approach her. Her face set and she looked at him full in the eyes without any sign of expression as he asked her to dance with him. But just when he uttered the last words of his slowly spoken invitation he opened his hand and she saw the favor he was offering her. It was a tiny kitten of black chenille made on wire, with minute yellow beads for eyes. She blushed and smiled at the same time as soon as she caught sight of it, rose graciously and they whirled away together. Neither spoke at all and their separation came almost immediately. Yet he felt more elated by that fragment of a dance than by all the compliments of word and look he had had that evening from men and women alike. She smiled at him again as she seated herself and his heart leapt. He saw her as she was leaving, her wrap open still and a bit of black on her yellow corsage.
V.
It was a dirty little square by the harborside, thronged with boatmen, sailors of all nations ashore for a day’s outing, picturesque cigarette-smoking loafers, fruit-sellers, negroes, uniformed police and open-shirted porters. The shops facing it were dingy, the stones of the quay awry in places, and the filth was more than is usual even in Rio de Janeiro. Tawdry like every populous quarter there, it had yet that pictorial air which all semi-tropical scenes, however much defaced by man, never quite lose. To a stranger its most salient feature was the clutter of six-sided, gaily-hued kiosques, which are scattered all through the streets of Rio, many decorated with flags and each selling lottery tickets, whatever else it might have for sale. By one, which dispensed coffee in steaming cups and cognac in tiny thin-stemmed glasses, stood an American talking to a Portuguese. The noticeable thing about the Brazilian was that he was usual and commonplace in every way. There was nothing in his form, features or dress which could possibly have served to remember him by. One might have conned him for an hour and after he was out of sight it would have been impossible to recall anything by which to describe him so as to distinguish him from any one of hundreds in the crowds of the capital. Not even his age could have been specified or approximated to. He was deliberate in his movements, watched his environment without appearing to do so and attracted no attention. Now he sipped his brandy while his interlocutor drank coffee, and the two talked in subdued tones. Discussing a purchase of ship stores, one would say.
A boatman in a suit of soiled white duck was loitering near, looking over the harbor. He sidled up to the American and cut in between speech and reply, in a deprecating voice:
“You wan’ Macedo see you talkin’ at Guimaraens, senhor Hen’son?”
“Where’s Macedo?” the other demanded.
The boatman pointed and the two men followed his hand. A boat was approaching across the sparkling water, and they saw the peculiar stroke of the navy and police-boats, in which the men pull and then rest so long with their oars poised that they seem hypnotized in mid-stroke and a novice expects them to stay so forever.
“There Macedo now, comin’ from Nictheroy,” said the fellow meaningly.
“What do you want me to do, Joao?” the American asked.
“Oh, Guimaraens he wait anywhere, come back when Macedo gone. You get in my boat, I row you roun’ pas’ those docks. Then Macedo won’ see you ’tall.”