"Excuse me," said Fitzgerald, laughing. "I forgot you were from the
land of Puritans. I meant no indignity to the young ladies, I assure
you. But when one amuses himself with imagining the impossible, it is
not worth while to be scrupulous about details. I am _not_ the Grand
Bashaw; and when I pronounced them fit for his harem, I merely meant
a compliment to their superlative beauty. That Floracita is a
mischievous little sprite. Did you ever see anything more roguish than
her expression while she was singing 'Petit blanc, mon bon frère'?"

"That mercurial little song excited my curiosity," replied Alfred.
"Pray what is its origin?"

"I think it likely it came from the French West Indies," said
Fitzgerald. "It seems to be the love-song of a young negress,
addressed to a white lover. Floracita may have learned it from her
mother, who was half French, half Spanish. You doubtless observed
the foreign sprinkling in their talk. They told me they never spoke
English with their mother. Those who have seen her describe her as a
wonderful creature, who danced like Taglioni and sang like Malibran,
and was more beautiful than her daughter Rosabella. But the last part
of the story is incredible. If she were half as handsome, no wonder
Mr. Royal idolized her, as they say he did."

"Did he marry her in the French Islands?" inquired Alfred.

"They were not married," answered Fitzgerald. "Of course not, for she
was a quadroon. But here are my lodgings, and I must bid you good
night."

These careless parting words produced great disturbance in the spirit