A servant tendered him a card that bore engraved the name Andres Escobar. He would see Mr. Escobar, he sent word, as soon as he could be dressed. And, choosing his garb in a mingling of haste and particular care, he was permeated by an indefinable excitement. Facing Andres, he had a sensation of his own clumsiness, his inept attitude; for the other, younger than he in appearance, was faultless in bearing: in immaculately ironed linen, a lavender tie and sprig of mimosa, he was an impressive figure of the best fashion. But Andres Escobar was far more than that: his sensitive delicately modelled dark face, the clear brown eyes and level lips, were stamped with a superfine personality. His English, as his father had said, was halting, confined to the merest formal phrases, but his tones were warm with hospitality. "It was polite of you to come so soon," Charles replied; "and your father was splendid to me on the steamer." "How do you like Havana?" Andres asked. "I love it!" Charles Abbott exclaimed, in a burst of enthusiasm, but of which, immediately after, he was ashamed. "I was thinking this morning," he continued more stiffly, "when I had hardly got here, how much at home I felt. That's funny, too; for it's entirely different from all I have known." "You like it!" Andres Escobar reflected his unreserved tone. "That's good; I am very, very glad. You must come to our house, Papa sends you this." He smiled delightfully. They were standing, and Charles waved toward the dining-room. "Suppose we go in there and have a drink." In Havana he continually found himself in situations of the most gratifying maturity--here he was, in the dining-room of the Inglaterra Hotel, with a tall rum punch before him, and a mature looking cigar. He was a little doubtful about the latter, its length was formidable; and he delayed lighting it until Andres had partly eclipsed himself in smoke. But, to his private satisfaction, Charles enjoyed the cigar completely. He liked his companion enormously, noticing, as they sat in a comfortable silence, fresh details: Andres' hair, ink-black, grew in a peak on his forehead; the silk case which held his cigars was bound in gold; his narrow shoes were patent leather with high heels. But what, above all else, impressed Charles, was his evidently worldly poise, the palpable air of experience that clung to him. Andres was at once younger and much older than himself. "How are you interested?" Andres asked, "in ... girls? I know some very nice ones." "Not in the least," Charles Abbott replied decidedly; "the only thing I care for is politics and the cause of justice and freedom." * * * * *