When the furniture had ceased crashing, the members of the club emerged from beneath the pool tables to see Mr. Travis tying up a slashed hand, while he of the razor lay moaning over a broken shoulder and exuding teeth in surprising quantities.

After this little incident no one ever so far forgot himself as to breathe the faintest aspersion on Mr. Travis, his dice, his way of throwing them down or of picking them up.

It was generally conceded that his conduct throughout the fray had been of the best, and the affair did much to raise him in popular esteem—­especially as he was able to prove the caviler’s charges to be utterly unfounded.

And so, with his physical beauty, his courage, and his wealth, Mr. Ambrose de Vere Travis became something of a figure in San Juan’s social circles.

Just when Ambrose fell in love with Miss Aphrodite Tate is not quite clear.

Aphrodite (pronounced just as spelled) was so named because her father thought it had something to do with Africa.  She was astoundingly, absolutely, and gratifyingly black, and Ambrose was sure that he had never seen any one quite so beautiful.

Aphrodite lived with her parents, the ancient and revered Fremont-Tates, patroons of San Juan.  In the daytime she was engaged as maid by a family that suttingly treated her lovely; while in the evening she could usually be found at the St. Benedict Young People’s Club.  And it was here that Ambrose met her.

True love ran smoothly for a long time.  At last, when he felt the tune was ripe, Ambrose pleaded urgent business for two evenings and shook down the Social Club dice fanciers for the price of the ring.

Then Mr. Dominique Raffin loomed dark on the horizon.  Mr. Raffin did not loom as dark as he might have loomed, however, because he was half white.  He hailed from Haiti, and was the son of a French sailor and a transplanted Congo wench.  He was slight of build and shifty of eye.  His excuse for being was a genius for music.  He could play anything, could this pasty Dominique, but of all instruments he was at his tuneful best on the alto saxophone.

“Lawd! Oh, Lawd!” his audience would ejaculate, as with closed eyes and heads thrown back they would drink in the sonorous emanations from the brazen tube.  “Dat’s de horn ob de Angel Gabriel—­dat’s de heabenly music ob de spears!” And so Dominique’s popularity grew among the ladies of San Juan, even if among the gentlemen it did not.

To tell the truth, Dominique was something of a beau.  Because he played in an orchestra, he had ample opportunity to study the deportment of people who passed as fashionable.  His dress was immaculate; his hair was not so kinky that it couldn’t be plastered down with brilliantine, and he perfumed himself copiously.  His fingers were heavily laden with rings.  Dominique’s voice was whining—­irritating.

His native tongue was French, but he had learned to speak English in Jamaica.  Thus his accent was a curious mixture of French and Cockney, lubricated with oily African.