Do you suppose that
lovely young Caracunan is a bullfighter?"
"No; I believe he's a coffee exporter. Less romantic, but more
respectable. Quite one of the gilded youth of Caracuna. His name
is Raimonda. Fitzhugh knows him. By the way, where on earth is
Fitzhugh?"
"Trying to fit a kind and gentlemanly expression over a swollen
sense of injury, for a guess," replied the girl carelessly. "I
left him in sweet and lone communion with nature three hours ago."
"Polly, I wish--"
"Oh, dad, dear, don't! You'll get your wish, I suppose, and Fitz,
too. Only I don't want to be hurried. Here he is, now. Look at
that smile! A sculptor couldn't have done any better. Now, as soon
as he comes, I'm going to be quite nice and kind."
But Mr. Fairfax Preston Fitzhugh Carroll did not come direct to
the Brewster table. Instead, he stopped to greet the elderly man
in the near-by group, and presently drew up a chair. At first,
their conversation was low-toned, but presently the young native
added his more vivacious accents.
"Who can tell?" the Brewsters heard him say, and marked the
fatalistic gesture of the upturned hands.
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