One story is good until another is told. Freeman had really thought Grace a fascinating girl, until he saw Miriam. There was no harm in that: the trouble was, he had allowed Grace to perceive his admiration. He had already remarked that she was a creature of violent extremes, tempered, but not improved, by a thin polish of subtlety. She was now about to give an illustration of the passion of jealousy. But it was not her jealousy that Freeman minded: it was the prospect of Miriam’s scorn when she should surmise that he had given Grace cause to be jealous. Miriam was not the sort of character to enter into a competition with any other woman about a lover. He would lose her before he had a chance to try to win her. But fortune proved rather more favorable than Freeman expected, or, perhaps, than he deserved. Grace’s attack was too impetuous. She stopped just inside the threshold, and said, in an imperious tone, “Come here, Mr. Freeman: I wish to speak to you.” “Thank you,” he replied, resolving at once to widen the breach to the utmost extent possible, “I am otherwise engaged.” “Upon my word,” observed the professor, with a chuckle, “you’re no diplomatist, Harvey! What are you two about here? Investigating antiquities?” “The remains of ancient Mexico are more interesting than some of her recent products,” returned Freeman, who wished to quarrel with somebody, and had promptly decided that Senor Don Miguel de Mendoza was the most available person. He bowed to the latter as he spoke. “You--a--spoken to me?” said the senor, stepping forward with a polite grimace. “I no to quite comprehend----” “Pray don’t exert yourself to converse with me out of your own language, senor,” interrupted Freeman, in Spanish. “I was just remarking that the Spaniards seem to have degenerated greatly since they colonized Mexico.” “Senor!” exclaimed Don Miguel, stiffening and staring. “Of course,” added Freeman, smiling benevolently upon him, “I judge only from such specimens of the modern Mexican as I happen to meet with.” Don Miguel’s sallow countenance turned greenish white. But, before he could make a reply, Meschines, who scented mischief in the air, and divined that the gentler sex must somehow be at the bottom of it, struck in. “You may consider yourself lucky, Harvey, in making the acquaintance of a gentleman like Senor de Mendoza, who exemplifies the undimmed virtues of Cortez and Torquemada. For my part, I brought him here in the hope that he might be able to throw some light on the mystery of this embroidered garment, which I see you’ve been examining. What do you say, Don Miguel? Have these designs any significance beyond mere ornament? Anything in the nature of hieroglyphics?”