Roberto flicked ash from his beautifully tailored dinner suit and lifted his glass. For a man in his late fifties, he was handsome. Standing to one side, near some candles, his diamond cuff links and studs glittered. Bald as a man can be, he had the air of a diplomat. Angular, taller than Raul, he had none of Raul's physical toughness ... he was a Guadalajara lawyer, promoter of mining interests and capable dabbler in city real estate. His mother had been the sister of Raul's mother. He liked the city, but appreciated Petaca's spaciousness, hunts, rodeos, fiestas and gambling. Tonight the roulette wheel spun and the tiny _pelota_ clicked like a race horse; it clicked and stopped, and the sound of the surf came through the room. For days the wind had boiled offshore and now the rollers foamed and thudded. "Twenty," Joaquin Siquiros called. "Twenty," someone repeated. No one had placed money on that number and the wheel began again. "Forty-one," Siquiros called, in his boyish voice. Roberto strolled from guest to guest, drinking, eating, chatting, bored with roulette since he had lost heavily; the asthmatic Selva had stolen his luck and Lucienne had won more than her share of the evening's cash. He found Lucienne, beside a big _mafafa_, and put his arm around her. "Were you lucky the last round?" he asked. "Yes, but where have you been?" "Just talking to people, catching up on Palma gossip." "You're drinking too much." "Not too much. I'm just tall and hold more. I leave the drinking to the Baroness. See, she can hardly take in her winnings." He laughed gently. Half asleep, losing, gaining, she leaned on the roulette table, jewels sparkling in her hair. "... Sister of the Polish pope," said Roberto. "Let's have something to eat," he whispered. "Food has been known to help people in my condition. May I bring you some sandwiches?" "Please. I'm really hungry." He served sandwiches and _entremés_ from a silver tray that salt air and time had darkened to a pewter finish. "Now, my dear, I'll get us some coffee. Let's sit here." "Twenty-four," Siquiros called. "Mine, mine!" shouted the Baroness. "Where did you buy that lovely gown? In Paris?" asked Roberto, bringing the coffee, and sitting down by Lucienne. "In Rome," she said. "Rome ... I remember Rome ... but I never saw a gown like yours there." He sipped his drink and said: "Lucienne, you're a beautiful woman; you make the gown more beautiful." Lucienne laughed happily. "I'm fairly sober," he said. "And it is your birthday.... Shall I go on? About your hair, your tiara ... your..." "Ah, no ... no more, dear Roberto." But her hand went to her platinum tiara; she pushed it forward on her head; the rubies, diamonds and sapphires seemed to glow a little more. The gown was dark, almost a velvet green, very long, very simple. She wore no jewelry other than the tiara, a Humboldt heirloom. "You know, it's almost 2:00 A.M.," she said.