en he saw Andres again, after the interval
of a week, his heart was empty of everything but crystal admiration,
affection; but Andres was obscured, his bearing even defiant. They
were at a reception given by a connection of the Cespedes on the
Cerro. Instinctively they had drawn aside, behind a screen of
pomegranate and mignonette trees in the patio; but their privacy,
Charles felt, had been uncomfortably invaded. He spoke of this,
gravely, and Andres suddenly drooped in extreme dejection.

"Why did you ever bring us together!" he exclaimed. "She, Pilar, has
fastened herself about me like one of those pale strangling orchids.
No other woman alive could have troubled me, but, then, Pilar is not a
woman." Charles Abbott explained his agreement with that.

"What is she?" Andres cried. "She says nothing, she hardly ever lifts
her eyes from her hands, I can give you my word kissing her is like
tasting a sherbet; and yet I can't put her out of my mind. I get all
my thoughts, my feelings, from her as though they passed in a body
from her brain to mine. They are thoughts I detest. Charles, when I am
away from you, I doubt and question you, and sink into an indifference
toward all we are, all we have been."

"Something like that began to happen to me," Charles admitted; "it was
necessary to bring it to an end; just as you must. Such things are not
for us. Drop her, Andres, on the Paseo, where she belongs." The other
again slipped outside the bounds of their friendship. "I must ask you
to make no such allusion," he retorted stiffly. Charles laughed, "You
old idiot," he said affectionately, "have her and get over it, then,
as soon as possible; I won't argue with you about such affairs, that's
plain." Andres laid a gripping hand on his arm, avoiding, while he
spoke, Charles' searching gaze.

"There is one thing you can do for me," he hurried on, "and--and I beg
you not to refuse. The manton that belonged to La Clavel! I described
it to Pilar, and she is mad to wear it to the danzon at the Tacon
Theatre. You see, it was embroidered by the Chinese, and it is
appropriate for her. Think of Pilar in that shawl, Charles."

"She can't have it," he answered shortly.

Andres Escobar's face darkened. "It had occurred to me you might
refuse," he replied. "Then there is nothing for me to do. But it
surprises me, when I remember the circumstances, that you have such a
tender feeling for it. After all, it wasn't a souvenir of love; you
ne