“Good,” he returned, treating me to one of his quizzical smiles. “It is delightful to know that someone is happy.” Manoel had removed my unopened newspapers from the bedroom, placing them on the breakfast table on the south veranda; and I had propped the _Mail_ up before me and had commenced to explore a juicy grapefruit when something, perhaps a faint breath of perfume, a slight rustle of draperies, or merely that indefinable aura which belongs to the presence of a woman, drew my glance upward and to the left. And there was Val Beverley smiling down at me. “Good morning, Mr. Knox,” she said. “Oh, please don’t interrupt your breakfast. May I sit down and talk to you?” “I should be most annoyed if you refused.” She was dressed in a simple summery frock which left her round, sun-browned arms bare above the elbow, and she laid a huge bunch of roses upon the table beside my tray. “I am the florist of the establishment,” she explained. “These will delight your eyes at luncheon. Don’t you think we are a lot of barbarians here, Mr. Knox?” “Why?” “Well, if I had not taken pity upon you, here you would have bat over a lonely breakfast just as though you were staying at a hotel.” “Delightful,” I replied, “now that you are here.” “Ah,” said she, and smiled roguishly, “that afterthought just saved you.” “But honestly,” I continued, “the hospitality of Colonel Menendez is true hospitality. To expect one’s guests to perform their parlour tricks around a breakfast table in the morning is, on the other hand, true barbarism.” “I quite agree with you,” she said, quietly. “There is a perfectly delightful freedom about the Colonel’s way of living. Only some horrid old Victorian prude could possibly take exception to it. Did you enjoy your ride?” “Immensely,” I replied, watching her delightedly as she arranged the roses in carefully blended groups. Her fingers were very delicate and tactile, and such is the character which resides in the human hand, that whereas the gestures of Madame de Stämer were curiously stimulating, there was something in the movement of Val Beverley’s pretty fingers amidst the blooms which I found most soothing. “I passed the Guest House on my return,” I continued. “Do you know Mr. Camber?” She looked at me in a startled way. “No,” she replied, “I don’t. Do you?” “I met him by chance yesterday.” “Really? I thought he was quite unapproachable; a sort of ogre.” “On the contrary, he is a man of great charm.” “Oh,” said Val Beverley, “well, since you have said so, I might as well admit that he has always seemed a charming man to me. I have never spoken to him, but he looks as though he could be very fascinating. Have you met his wife?” “No. Is she also American?” My companion shook her head. “I have no idea,” she replied. “I have seen her several times of course, and she is one of the daintiest creatures imaginable, but I know nothing about her nationality.” “She is young, then?”