Chapter 14 - Page 2

of his stay in the house Salvé had perceived that
there was a want of money; and having heard the brother and sister
quarrelling one day when both were in a bad humour, he thought it best
to carry out, at the first convenient moment, the determination at which
he had arrived, and handed over to Federigo what money he had, with the
exception of a single silver piastre, saying, "That it was only right he
should pay for his lodging and board."

The money, though deprecatingly, was still accepted, and in the evening
Federigo was out once more, his sister remaining at home.

She and Salvé, on account of their ignorance of each other's language,
could not hold much conversation together, and Salvé was rather glad of
this wall of separation between them, as it left him more at his ease.
She had, however, recently looked more often at him with a sort of
interest, and on several occasions had put questions to him through her
brother. Her range of ideas was apparently not extensive, as her
questions always turned upon the same topic--namely, what the women were
like in his country; so that he soon came to know by heart all the
Spanish terms which related to that subject.

They were out on the veranda together that evening, and as she went past
his back while he was leaning over in his seat, she drew her hand as if
by accident lightly through his hair. If it had had the electricity of a
cat's, it would have given out a perfect shower of sparks, so enraged
was he at the advance.

When Federigo came home he flung his hat away angrily on to a chair, and
drank down at a gulp a glass of rum that was standing on the table. He
no longer wore the smart cloak he had on when he went out.

"I have gambled away all your money!" he cried, in English, to Salvé, as
if careless of further reticence, and made some remark then with an
unpleasant laugh to his sister, who had evidently by her expression
perceived at once how matters stood.

"There's my last piastre for you," said Salvé, throwing it over to him.
"Try your luck with it."

"He is successful in love," said Paolina, tearfully, and with a _naïve_
affectation of superstition--"he is engaged."

When her brother, who was balancing the piastre on his forefinger,
laughingly translated what she had said, Salvé replied snappishly, with
an impatient glance at the señorita--

"I am not engaged, and never shall be."

"Unsuccessful in love!" she broke out, gleefully; "and the last piastre!
To-morrow we shall win a hundred, two hundred, Federigo!"

It was clearly the conviction of her heart; and she seized a