suspicious nature, were but the old man's recital of the grinding he had
got between the millstones of his poverty and his pride, in trying so
long to sustain, for little Pauline's sake, that attitude before society
which earns respect from a surface-viewing world. It was while he was
telling this that Manuel Mazaro drew near; the old man paused in an
embarrassed way; the Major, sitting sidewise in his chair, lifted his
cheek from its resting-place on his elbow; and Mazaro, after standing an
awkward moment, turned away with such an inward feeling as one may guess
would arise in a heart full of Cuban blood, not unmixed with Indian.

As he moved off, M. D'Hemecourt resumed: that in a last extremity he had
opened, partly from dire want, partly for very love to homeless souls,
the Café des Exilés. He had hoped that, as strong drink and high words
were to be alike unknown to it, it might not prejudice sensible people;
but it had. He had no doubt they said among themselves, "She is an
excellent and beautiful girl and deserving all respect;" and respect
they accorded, but their _respects_ they never came to pay.

"A café is a café," said the old gentleman. "It is nod possib' to ezcape
him, aldough de Café des Exilés is differen from de rez."

"It's different from the Café des Réfugiés," suggested the Irishman.

"Differen' as possib'," replied M. D'Hemecourt He looked about upon the
walls. The shelves were luscious with ranks of cooling sirups which he
alone knew how to make. The expression of his face changed from sadness
to a gentle pride, which spoke without words, saying--and let our story
pause a moment to hear it say:

"If any poor exile, from any island where guavas or mangoes or plantains