He became conscious of the sustained gravity of his thoughts, how his activity had been forced from the body to his mind; and that recalled to him the necessity for a contrary appearance. It would be wise for him to go to the Cafe Dominica that evening, in an obvious facile excitement at his connection, at once close and remote, with the death of Santacilla in the dancer's room. But, beyond the fact that it was known he had dispatched the servant upstairs, and the usual wild, thin speculations, nothing had been allowed to appear. Santacilla, it was announced, had died naturally. La Clavel wasn't mentioned. She had spoken to others than Charles of her determination to go to the Argentine; and it was probable, rumor said, principally in Spanish mouths, that she would go quietly south. At the United States Club, the idlers and gamblers surveyed Charles with dubious looks; and, over a rum punch, he adopted a sullen uncommunicative air. It would not do to drop his widely advertised habits too suddenly; he could not, in a day, change from a rake to a serious student of such books as Machiavelli's Prince; and he prepared, with utter disgust, for his final bow in the cloak of dissipation. * * * * * Purely by accident he met, at the Plaza de Toros, Jaime Quintara, Remigio Florez and Andres. It was so fortunately, evidently, haphazard, that they continued together while Charles related the circumstances of the tragedy in La Clavel's room. The others were filled with wonder, bravos, at her strength and courage. Someday, Remigio swore, when Cuba was free, he would put up a monument to her in India Park. It would be of heroic size, the bronze figure of a dancer, in a manton, on a block of stone, with an appropriate inscription. "The trouble with that," Andres objected, "is if we should live and put up a monument to everyone who deserved it, the parks would be too crowded with bronzes for walking. All of Cuba might have to be commemorated in metal." At Neptuno Street and the Paseo Isabel they parted. Charles proceeded alone toward the sea; and, with the knowledge that Andres had not gone home, but would be evident in public elsewhere, he stopped to see the other members of the Escobar family. Carmita Escobar had faded perceptibly since Vincente's death; still riven by sorrow she ceaselessly regretted the unhappy, the blasphemous, necessity which made the wearing of mourning for him inadmissible. Domingo Escobar, as well, showed the effects of continuous strain; his vein of humor was exhausted, he no longer provoked Charles' inadequate Spanish; he avoided any direct reference to Cuba. He was, he said, considering moving to Paris, he was getting old and no one could complain, now, since--. He broke off, evidently at the point of referring to Vincente and the Escobar local patriotism.