Salvé was not so stupid as not to comprehend her meaning. He was quite
aware that she was handsome as she sat there with her hand on her knee,
and her well-formed foot gracefully brought into view; but his feeling
was exclusively one of indignation that such a common Brazilian baggage
should presume to bring herself into comparison with Elizabeth. He flung
away his cigar impatiently, and went down into the garden, without
attempting to conceal his aversion. He hated all women since the one he
had fixed his heart on had disappointed him, and he strode backwards and
forwards now in more than usual indignation against the sex.

He was still pacing the garden when Federigo came back, heated and
triumphant, with his cloak on his shoulder and a bag under his arm.

"Nearly three hundred piastres!" he cried, clearing the garden in a
succession of bounds.

His sister had been asleep on the sofa, and sprang up in ecstasy at the
intelligence; and they proceeded then with childish glee to spread out
the silver on the table, and divide it into three. When Salvé absolutely
refused to take more than his one piastre back again, there came
actually a look of humble admiration into the señorita's eyes. She could
not comprehend such an act of self-sacrifice, although she seemed to
vaguely feel that there was something noble about it. After a moment's
consideration she held out her hand and said--

"Señor, give me the piastre you have in your hand, and I will give you
another in return for it."

He did so, and she took it and kissed it repeatedly.