He stood up and brought a close to the business interview, and was
gripping Mr. Philip's hand, when a sudden recollection reddened his
face. "Ah, there's one thing," he said quite lightly, though the vein
down the middle of his forehead had darkened. "You see from those
letters that a Señor Vicente de Rojas is making an offer for the house.
He's not to have it. Do you understand? Not at any price."

The effect of this restriction, made obviously at the behest of some
deep passion, was to make him suddenly sinister. They gazed at him as
though he had revealed that he carried arms. But Ellen remembered
business again.

"Those letters," she reminded Mr. Philip, "had I not better read them
over before Mr. Yaverland goes?"

Yaverland caught his breath, then spoke off-handedly. "You're
forgetting. They don't speak Spanish in Brazil, but Portuguese." And
added confidentially, "Of course you were thinking of the Argentine."

She was as hurt by the revelation of this vast breach in her omniscience
as the bright twang of knowingness in her voice had told him she would
be.

"Yes," she said unsteadily, "I was thinking of the Argentine."

He shook hands with Mr. Philip, and she took him down the corridor to
the door. She blinked back her tears as he stood at the head of the
stair and put up his collar with those strange hands that were speckled
like a snake's belly, for it seemed a waste, like staying indoors when
the menagerie procession is going round the town, to let anything so