bitterness. I mean when he smiled. In repose it was
a very expressionless mouth, only it was too red to be altogether
ordinary. The whole of him was like that: the whiskers too black, the
hair too shiny, the forehead too white, the eyes too mobile; and he lent
you his attention with an air of eagerness which made you uncomfortable.
He seemed to expect you to give yourself away by some unconsidered word
that he would snap up with delight. It was that peculiarity that somehow
put me on my guard. I had no idea who I was facing across the table and
as a matter of fact I did not care. All my impressions were blurred; and
even the promptings of my instinct were the haziest thing imaginable.
Now and then I had acute hallucinations of a woman with an arrow of gold
in her hair. This caused alternate moments of exaltation and depression
from which I tried to take refuge in conversation; but Senor Ortega was
not stimulating. He was preoccupied with personal matters. When
suddenly he asked me whether I knew why he had been called away from his
work (he had been buying supplies from peasants somewhere in Central
France), I answered that I didn't know what the reason was originally,
but I had an idea that the present intention was to make of him a
courier, bearing certain messages from Baron H. to the Quartel Real in
Tolosa.

He glared at me like a basilisk. "And why have I been met like this?" he
enquired with an air of being prepared to hear a lie.

I explained that it was the Baron's wish, as a matter of prudence and to
avoid any possible trouble which might arise from enquiries by the
police.

He took it badly. "What nonsense." He was--he said--an employe (for
several years) of Hernandez Brothers in Paris, an importing firm, and he
was travelling on their business--as he could prove. He dived into his
side pocket and produced a handful of folded papers of all sorts which he
plunged back again instantly.

And even then I didn't know whom I had there, opposite me, busy now
devouring a slice of pate de foie gras. Not in the least. It never
entered my head. How could it? The Rita that haunted me had no history;
she was but the principle of life charged with fatality. Her form was
only a mirage of desire decoying one step by step into despair.

Senor Ortega gulped down some more wine and suggested I should tell him
who I was. "It's only right I should know," he added.

This could not be gainsaid; and to a man