“It certainly is,” Adam agreed.  “However, since you insist, I’ll talk plain.  Alvarez has no claim on you, although he has a claim on me, and I pay my debts.  The last to fall due is going to strain my finances, but it must be paid, a hundred cents for every dollar.  All the same, the liability is not yours.  There’s no reason why you shouldn’t pull out while you’re safe.”

Kit shook his head.  “I see a reason.  I don’t know if it’s sound, but after all one’s self-respect is worth something.”

“Oh, well!” said Adam, “we won’t quarrel.  You’re very like Peter and he’s the staunchest man I know.”

He got up and when he went off, Kit, feeling somewhat moved, lighted a cigarette and smoked thoughtfully.  It looked as if Adam did not think the president would win, but for all that meant to stand by him.  Although not fastidious about his business methods, Adam had his code and was not afraid, when friendship demanded it, to fight for a lost cause.  Moreover, Kit meant to fight with him.  Then he got up and smiled.  Adam meant well, but he was clumsy; if he had wanted to save Kit from sharing his risk, he might have made a better plan.

When evening came Kit entered the arcade and sat down in a quiet spot to look about.  The moon was nearly full and flooded half the patio with silver light; the rest was in shadow and rows of colored lamps twinkled in the gloom.  A band played behind the pillars, the rattle of castanets breaking in on the tinkle of the guitars when the beat was sharply marked.  The music was seductive, unlike any Kit had heard in England, and he thought it tinged by the melancholy the Moors had brought, long since, from the East to Spain.

At one end of the patio, groups of young men and women moved through the changing figures of an old Spanish dance.  Their poses were strangely graceful, and some had a touch of stateliness.  This vanished when the music changed and the well-balanced figures, raising bent arms, danced with riotous abandon.  In a minute or two the melancholy note was struck again and the movements were marked by dignified reserve.  Kit got a hint of Southern passion and, by contrast, of the austerity that often goes with Indian blood.

In the meantime, he noted the play of moving color, for the women wore white and pink and yellow.  Some had flowers in their dark hair and some covered their heads with a lace mantilla.  The men’s clothes were varied, for a number wore shabby uniforms, and others white linen with red silk sashes, while a few had chosen the plain black, and wide sombrero, of the Spanish don.

At the other end of the patio, portly senoras with powdered faces sat among the pillars, and grave, dark-skinned citizens moved about the pavement in talking groups.  A heavily-built man with a very swarthy color and thick lips went to and fro among them, bowing and smiling, and Kit knew this was Galdar, the president’s rival.  Kit did not like the fellow and thought his negro strain was marked.  He looked sensual, cruel, and cunning.  For the most part, the president stood outside the crowd, although now and then a group formed about him.  He was tall and thin, his face was inscrutable, and Kit thought he looked lonely and austere.