Bateman shook hands with her. She had dark, splendid eyes and a red
mouth tremulous with laughter; but her skin was brown, and her curling
hair, rippling down her-shoulders, was coal black. She wore but one
garment, a Mother Hubbard of pink cotton, her feet were bare, and she
was crowned with a wreath of white scented flowers. She was a lovely
creature. She was like a goddess of the Polynesian spring.

She was a little shy, but not more shy than Bateman, to whom the whole
situation was highly embarrassing, and it did not put him at his ease to
see this sylph-like thing take a shaker and with a practised hand mix
three cocktails.

"Let us have a kick in them, child," said Jackson.

She poured them out and smiling delightfully handed one to each of the
men. Bateman flattered himself on his skill in the subtle art of shaking
cocktails and he was not a little astonished, on tasting this one, to
find that it was excellent. Jackson laughed proudly when he saw his
guest's involuntary look of appreciation.

"Not bad, is it? I taught the child myself, and in the old days in
Chicago I considered that there wasn't a bar-tender in the city that
could hold a candle to me. When I had nothing better to do in the
penitentiary I used to amuse myself by thinking out new cocktails, but
when you come down to brass-tacks there's nothing to beat a dry
Martini."

Bateman felt as though someone had given him a violent blow on the
funny-bone and he was conscious that he turned red and then white. But
before he could think of anything to say a native boy brought in a great
bowl of soup and the whole party sat down to dinner. Arnold Jackson's
remark seemed to have aroused in him a train of recollections, for he
began to talk of his prison days. He talked quite naturally, without
malice, as though he were relating his experiences at a foreign
university. He addressed himself to Bateman and Bateman was confused and
then confounded. He saw Edward's eyes fixed on him and there was in them
a flicker of amusement. He blushed scarlet, for it struck him that
Jackson was making a fool of him, and then because he felt absurd--and
knew there was no reason why he should--he grew angry. Arnold Jackson
was impudent--there was no other word for it--and his callousness,
whether assumed or not, was outrageous. The dinner proceeded. Bateman
was asked to eat sundry messes, raw fish and he knew not what, which
only his civility induced him to swallow, but w