“Because if I am unconventionalized I am an old European,” I murmured gently.  “No, Excellentissima, I shall go through life without as much as a switch in my hand.  It’s no use you being angry.  Adapting to this great moment some words you’ve heard before:  I am like that.  Such is my character!”

Dona Rita frankly stared at me—­a most unusual expression for her to have.  Suddenly she sat up.

“Don George,” she said with lovely animation, “I insist upon knowing who is in my house.”

“You insist! . . .  But Therese says it is her house.”

Had there been anything handy, such as a cigarette box, for instance, it would have gone sailing through the air spouting cigarettes as it went.  Rosy all over, cheeks, neck, shoulders, she seemed lighted up softly from inside like a beautiful transparency.  But she didn’t raise her voice.

“You and Therese have sworn my ruin.  If you don’t tell me what you mean I will go outside and shout up the stairs to make her come down.  I know there is no one but the three of us in the house.”

“Yes, three; but not counting my Jacobin.  There is a Jacobin in the house.”

“A Jac . . .!  Oh, George, is this the time to jest?” she began in persuasive tones when a faint but peculiar noise stilled her lips as though they had been suddenly frozen.  She became quiet all over instantly.  I, on the contrary, made an involuntary movement before I, too, became as still as death.  We strained our ears; but that peculiar metallic rattle had been so slight and the silence now was so perfect that it was very difficult to believe one’s senses.  Dona Rita looked inquisitively at me.  I gave her a slight nod.  We remained looking into each other’s eyes while we listened and listened till the silence became unbearable.  Dona Rita whispered composedly:  “Did you hear?”

“I am asking myself . . .  I almost think I didn’t.”

“Don’t shuffle with me.  It was a scraping noise.”

“Something fell.”

“Something!  What thing?  What are the things that fall by themselves?  Who is that man of whom you spoke?  Is there a man?”

“No doubt about it whatever.  I brought him here myself.”

“What for?”

“Why shouldn’t I have a Jacobin of my own?  Haven’t you one, too?  But mine is a different problem from that white-haired humbug of yours.  He is a genuine article.  There must be plenty like him about.  He has scores to settle with half a dozen people, he says, and he clamours for revolutions to give him a chance.”

“But why did you bring him here?”

“I don’t know—­from sudden affection . . . "