distinguished who has . . ."

She was not able to finish, for her husband interrupted. They were no
longer in American waters, and the Counsellor expressed himself with the
rudeness of a master of his house.

"I have the honor to inform you, young man," he said, imitating the
cutting coldness of the diplomats, "that you are merely a South American
and know nothing of the affairs of Europe."

He did not call him an "Indian," but Julio heard the implication as
though he had used the word itself. Ah, if that hidden handclasp had not
held him with its sentimental thrills! . . . But this contact kept him
calm and even made him smile. "Thanks, Captain," he said to himself. "It
is the least you can do to get even with me!"

Here his relations with the German and his clientele came to an end. The
merchants, as they approached nearer and nearer to their native land,
began casting off that servile desire of ingratiating themselves which
they had assumed in all their trips to the new world. They now had more
important things to occupy them. The telegraphic service was working
without cessation. The Commandant of the vessel was conferring in his
apartment with the Counsellor as his compatriot of most importance.
His friends were hunting out the most obscure places in order to
talk confidentially with one another. Even Bertha commenced to avoid
Desnoyers. She was still smiling distantly at him, but that smile was
more of a souvenir than a reality.

Between Lisbon and the coast of England, Julio spoke with her husband
for the last time. Every morning was appearing on the bulletin board the