practical and unromantic; he boasted that he had never had an
illusion, never an interest outside of his business. And yet, on
the day this story opens, this prosaic personage, in spite of his
bulging waistband and his taut neckband, in spite of his short
breath and his prickly heat, was in a very whirl of pleasurable
excitement. Don Mario, in fact, suffered the greatest of all
illusions: he was in love, and he believed himself beloved. The
object of his adoration was little Rosa Varona, the daughter of
his one-time friend Esteban. At thought of her the planter glowed
with ardor--at any rate he took it to be ardor, although it might
have been the fever from that summer rash which so afflicted him--
and his heart fluttered in a way dangerous to one of his
apoplectic tendencies. To be sure, he had met Rosa only twice
since her return from her Yankee school, but twice had been
enough; with prompt decision he had resolved to do her the honor
of making her his wife.

Now, with a person of Don Mario's importance, to decide for
himself is to decide for others, and inasmuch as he knew that Dona
Isabel, Rosa's stepmother, was notoriously mercenary and had not
done at all well since her husband's death, it did not occur to
him to doubt that his suit would prosper. It was, in fact, to make
terms with her that he rode forth in the heat of this particular
afternoon.

Notwithstanding the rivulets of perspiration that were coursing
down every fold of his flesh, and regardless of the fact that the
body of his victoria was tipped at a drunken angle, as if
struggling to escape the burdens of his great weight, Don Mario
felt a jauntiness of body and of spirit almost like that of youth.