e of his hat and the rake back, through an
elbow, of his malacca cane, were all satisfying, distinguished. But
Charles' consciousness of these actual traits, details, had vanished
before an acceptance of Andres as a whole, uncritically. What, once,
had been a process of thought had become an emotion integral with his
own subconscious being.

Something of his essential character had entered Andres, and a part of
Andres had become bound into him. This, as soon as she had grown into
the slightest menace to it, had cast Pilar de Lima from his
consideration. It had been no effort, at the moment necessary he had
forgotten her; just as Andres, faced with the truth, would put her
away from him. The bond between them, Charles told himself, was forged
from pure gold.

This was running through his head on the night of the danzon. He was
seated at the entrance of the United States Club, where the sharp
Yankee accents of the gamblers within floated out and were lost in the
narrow walled darkness of Virtudes Street. It was no more than eleven,
the Tacon Theatre would be empty yet.... Charles had no intention of
going to the danzon, but at the same time he was the victim of a
restless curiosity in connection with it; he had an uncomfortable
oppression at the vision of Andres, with Pilar in the bright shawl, on
the floor crowded with the especial depravities of Havana.

The Spanish officers had made it customary for men of gentility to go
into the criolla festivities; they were always present, the young and
careless, the drunken and degenerate; and that, too, added to Charles'
indefinable sense of possible disaster. In a way, it might be an
excellent thing for him to attend, to watch, the danzon. If Andres
were infatuated he would be blind to the dangers, both the political
and those emanating from the mixture of bloods. At this moment the
game inside ended, and a knot of men, sliding into their coats,
awkwardly grasping broad-brimmed hats, appeared, departing for the
Tacon Theatre. A perfunctory nodded invitation for him to accompany
them settled the indecision in Charles Abbott's mind. And, a half hour
later, he was seated in a palco of the second tier, above the dance.

Familiar with them, he paid no attention to the sheer fantastic
spectacle; the two orchestras, one taking up the burden of sound when
the other paused, produced not for him their rasping dislocated
rhythm. He was aware only of floating skirts, masks and dark or l