"And who, then, is this unhappy one?" asked the Don quickly.

"Well--a--friend," stammered Polly, hesitatingly.

"A friend!" repeated Don Jose. "Ah, I see, of possibility a dear
one, even," he continued, gazing with tender melancholy into the
untroubled cerulean depths of Polly's eyes, "even, but no, child,
it could not be! THOU art too young."

"Ah," said Polly, with an extraordinary gulp and a fierce nudge of
the poetess, "but it WAS me."

"You, Senorita," repeated Don Jose, falling back in an attitude of
mingled admiration and pity. "You, the child of Jenkinson!"

"Yes, yes," joined in the poetess hurriedly; "but that isn't going
to stop the consequences of your wretched blunder. My husband will
be furious, and will be here at any moment. Good gracious! what is
that?"

The violent slamming of a distant door at that instant, the sounds
of quick scuffling on the staircase, and the uplifting of an irate
voice had reached her ears and thrown her back in the arms of Polly
Jenkinson. Even the young girl herself turned an anxious gaze
towards the door. Don Jose alone was unmoved.

"Possess yourselves in peace, Senoritas," he said calmly. "We have
here only the characteristic convalescence of my friend and
brother, the excellent Roberto. He will ever recover himself from
drink with violence, even as he precipitates himself into it with