Having entered the house he was followed by Dom Pedro, who bent upon him
such a look of hatred as only the eyes of Latin races can give. The
Portuguese turned to the right to his own apartments and Adams following
a servant to the left, was soon in the dimly lighted library of Dom Luiz
de Amaral the father of Dom Pedro. There were not many books on the
shelves but a superb collection of Oriental swords and knives was
arranged in the cases from which the shelves had been taken. Two old
engravings, one of the poet Camoens and the other of Catarina de Atayde,
his beloved, who died of grief at his banishment, hung on the wall; the
rest of the furnishings was of that cosmopolitan character which is sure
to collect in the home of a European resident in the far East.

"Can't you see me Robert?" said a laughing voice of great sweetness from
a corner of the study. "One would think that both your eyes had met the
same fate that the right one of poor Camoens did in Morocco." "My
darling Priscilla how could I see you ten feet away from the light? You
know olive oil don't give the brightest illumination. But its enough
though." "Don't!" "Just one," and then a sound not unknown to many of us
put a stop to the conversation. "Shall I leave the room children?" came
in merry tones from another corner and immediately an old lady came
forward giving both hands to him. "That miserable oil of Dom Amaral's
has put me into a pretty mess," said Adams half annoyed, but laughing as
he greeted the lady. "Don't berate me before my face dear friend about
my light, especially when you are so soon to take our brightest light
away from us." "Fairly trapped, Dom Amaral," cried Adams laughing
heartily at this third interruption. "And here is Dom Pedro dressed for
dinner," he continued as the younger Amaral entered the room. "I'll be
with you presently and have my eyes toned down to your Macao standard."