oked down upon a fine forest of back gardens, and was in turn
commanded by the windows of an empty room.
On the afternoon of a warm day, Desborough sauntered forth upon this
terrace, somewhat out of hope and heart, for he had been now some weeks
on the vain quest of situations, and prepared for melancholy and
tobacco. Here, at least, he told himself that he would be alone; for,
like most youths who are neither rich, nor witty, nor successful, he
rather shunned than courted the society of other men. Even as he
expressed the thought, his eye alighted on the window of the room that
looked upon the terrace; and, to his surprise and annoyance, he beheld
it curtained with a silken hanging. It was like his luck, he thought;
his privacy was gone, he could no longer brood and sigh unwatched, he
could no longer suffer his discouragement to find a vent in words or
soothe himself with sentimental whistling; and in the irritation of the
moment, he struck his pipe upon the rail with unnecessary force. It was
an old, sweet, seasoned briar-root, glossy and dark with long
employment, and justly dear to his fancy. What, then, was his chagrin,
when the head snapped from the stem, leaped airily in space, and fell
and disappeared among the lilacs of the garden?
He threw himself savagely into the garden chair, pulled out the
story-paper which he had brought with him to read, tore off a fragment
of the last sheet, which contains only the answers to correspondents,
and set himself to roll a cigarette. He was no master of the art; again
and again, the paper broke between his fingers and the tobacco showered
upon the ground; and he was already on the point of angry resignation,
when the window swung slowly inward, the silken curtain was thrust
aside, and a lady somewhat strangely attired stepped forth upon the
terrace.
"Senorito," said she, and there was a rich thrill in her voice, like an
organ note, "Senorito, you are in difficulties. Suffer me to come to
your assistance."
With the words, she took the paper and tobacco from his unresisting
hands; and with a facility that, in Desborough's eyes, seemed magical,
rolled and presented him a cigarette. He took it, still seated, still
without a word; staring with all his eyes upon that apparition. Her face
was warm and rich in colour; in shape, it was that piquant triangle, so
innocently sly, so saucily attractive, so rare in our more northern
climates; her eyes were large, starry, and visite
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