"I shall stop on at 'The Palms' till then," said Mercedes--"Mavis has asked me. And if you will come into Havana with me the day of the dance, my Mother will be very glad to have you stay with us over that night. For it will be a late party, of course--too late for you to return to Guayabal." "Bully," said Wright with enthusiasm, "I'd love it. What does one wear?" he asked anxiously. "Low neck and short sleeves," answered Bill, appearing from the locker rooms. "Wright thinks," said Mercedes pensively, "that at an affair almost entirely within the Spanish-Cuban set, the gentlemen appear attired as _toreodores_." Wright looked aggrieved. "Not at all," he contradicted, "only the Anglo-Saxon fashions for men are utterly devoid of beauty. I wish I had lived some time back--in the satin knee-breeches and lace cuff period." "But you're bow-legged!" objected Bill insultingly. "I am not," said Wright indignantly. "Observe!" He thrust out a far from unshapely calf, in tweed knickers. "If my extremities show a slight tendency to bow, it is merely a sign of physical strength, and many years spent in the saddle and on the base-ball diamond." Said Mercedes to me, in an aside. "Now, you know, my Mother would never have listened to such a discussion--in Madrid!" "She would never have had the opportunity," I whispered back. "To return to the Mendez ball," said Wright, raising his voice, with intent. "I thought a simple flower in my hair or thrust into my waistcoat...." "You _are_ an ass!" remarked Bill, yawning. "Perhaps," conceded Wright pleasantly, "but it is a quality which keeps me much in demand." "You will never," said Bill deliberately, "get very far in your work, old man. For one thing--you have too much money: for another, you take nothing seriously." "How about yourself?" asked Wright, a little stirred. Bill glanced at Mercedes, but she smiled at him and nodded. "I have found out about you, Billy," she said, "So go ahead and talk." "Who told you?" demanded my husband, not very angrily. "Partly Wright--I wormed it out of him, after he had let something slip--and, more recently, Mavis." "Mavis!" said Bill in astonishment. I did not meet his eyes. "Why not?" asked Mercedes. "She is bursting with pride in you, naturally. _Cela va sans dire!_ So, after I had probed and begged a little, she let me see the book. It is very wonderful," she ended, with that utter lack of self-consciousness in expressing her emotions and opinions, which, after one was used to it, was rather endearing. "Well, then, as you're among friends, Billy, I repeat, what about yourself?" "I have my profession," Bill answered quietly. "I am a doctor--and I love it. It is, perhaps, my vocation--to heal and to mend, and to help. And equally, perhaps, poetry is my avocation." "Dictionary definition of avocation is 'diversion,'" said Wright, triumphantly. "And the definition of diversion is 'recreation'!" I put in.