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"
To
my
house
they
came
,
"
said
she
--
"
one
señor
,
not
quite
old
,
and
one
señorita
of
sufficient
handsomeness
.
They
desired
not
to
eat
or
to
drink
--
not
even
of
my
aguardiente
,
which
is
the
best
.
To
their
rooms
they
ascended
--
Numero
Nueve
and
Numero
Diez
.
Later
came
Señor
Goodwin
,
who
ascended
to
speak
with
them
.
Then
I
heard
a
great
noise
like
that
of
a
canon
,
and
they
said
that
the
pobre
Presidente
had
shot
himself
.
Está
bueno
.
I
saw
nothing
of
money
or
of
the
thing
you
call
veliz
that
you
say
he
carried
it
in
.
"
Colonel
Falcon
soon
came
to
the
reasonable
conclusion
that
if
anyone
in
Coralio
could
furnish
a
clue
to
the
vanished
money
,
Frank
Goodwin
must
be
the
man
.
But
the
wise
secretary
pursued
a
different
course
in
seeking
information
from
the
American
.
Goodwin
was
a
powerful
friend
to
the
new
administration
,
and
one
who
was
not
to
be
carelessly
dealt
with
in
respect
to
either
his
honesty
or
his
courage
.
Even
the
private
secretary
of
His
Excellency
hesitated
to
have
this
rubber
prince
and
mahogany
baron
haled
before
him
as
a
common
citizen
of
Anchuria
.
So
he
sent
Goodwin
a
flowery
epistle
,
each
word-petal
dripping
with
honey
,
requesting
the
favour
of
an
interview
.
Goodwin
replied
with
an
invitation
to
dinner
at
his
own
house
.
Before
the
hour
named
the
American
walked
over
to
the
Casa
Morena
,
and
greeted
his
guest
frankly
and
friendly
.
Then
the
two
strolled
,
in
the
cool
of
the
afternoon
,
to
Goodwin
's
home
in
the
environs
.
The
American
left
Colonel
Falcon
in
a
big
,
cool
,
shadowed
room
with
a
floor
of
inlaid
and
polished
woods
that
any
millionaire
in
the
States
would
have
envied
,
excusing
himself
for
a
few
minutes
.
He
crossed
a
patio
,
shaded
with
deftly
arranged
awnings
and
plants
,
and
entered
a
long
room
looking
upon
the
sea
in
the
opposite
wing
of
the
house
.
The
broad
jalousies
were
opened
wide
,
and
the
ocean
breeze
flowed
in
through
the
room
,
an
invisible
current
of
coolness
and
health
.
Goodwin
's
wife
sat
near
one
of
the
windows
,
making
a
water-color
sketch
of
the
afternoon
seascape
.
Here
was
a
woman
who
looked
to
be
happy
.
And
more
--
she
looked
to
be
content
.
Had
a
poet
been
inspired
to
pen
just
similes
concerning
her
favour
,
he
would
have
likened
her
full
,
clear
eyes
,
with
their
white-encircled
,
gray
irises
,
to
moonflowers
.
With
none
of
the
goddesses
whose
traditional
charms
have
become
coldly
classic
would
the
discerning
rhymester
have
compared
her
.
She
was
purely
Paradisaic
,
not
Olympian
.
If
you
can
imagine
Eve
,
after
the
eviction
,
beguiling
the
flaming
warriors
and
serenely
reentering
the
Garden
,
you
will
have
her
.
Just
so
human
,
and
still
so
harmonious
with
Eden
seemed
Mrs.
Goodwin
.
When
her
husband
entered
she
looked
up
,
and
her
lips
curved
and
parted
;
her
eyelids
fluttered
twice
or
thrice
--
a
movement
remindful
(
Poesy
forgive
us
!
)
of
the
tail-wagging
of
a
faithful
dog
--
and
a
little
ripple
went
through
her
like
the
commotion
set
up
in
a
weeping
willow
by
a
puff
of
wind
.
Thus
she
ever
acknowledged
his
coming
,
were
it
twenty
times
a
day
.
If
they
who
sometimes
sat
over
their
wine
in
Coralio
,
reshaping
old
,
diverting
stories
of
the
madcap
career
of
Isabel
Guilbert
,
could
have
seen
the
wife
of
Frank
Goodwin
that
afternoon
in
the
estimable
aura
of
her
happy
wifehood
,
they
might
have
disbelieved
,
or
have
agreed
to
forget
,
those
graphic
annals
of
the
life
of
the
one
for
whom
their
president
gave
up
his
country
and
his
honour
.
"
I
have
brought
a
guest
to
dinner
,
"
said
Goodwin
.
"
One
Colonel
Falcon
,
from
San
Mateo
.
He
is
come
on
government
business
.
I
do
not
think
you
will
care
to
see
him
,
so
I
prescribe
for
you
one
of
those
convenient
and
indisputable
feminine
headaches
.
"
"
He
has
come
to
inquire
about
the
lost
money
,
has
he
not
?
"
asked
Mrs.
Goodwin
,
going
on
with
her
sketch
.
