familiarity, since his soul was unfamiliar.
They had a tea-table out on the terrace, and Cipriano, in uniform, was there. He got up quickly, and came down the terrace with outstretched arms, his black eyes gleaming with an intensity almost like pain, upon the face of the other man. And Ramón looked back at him with wide, seeing, yet unchanging eyes.
The two men embraced, breast to breast, and for a moment Cipriano laid his little blackish hands on the naked shoulders of the bigger man, and for a moment was perfectly still on his breast. Then very softly, he stood back and looked at him, saying not a word.
Ramón abstractly laid his hand on Cipriano’s shoulder, looking down at him with a little smile.
“Que tal?” he said, from the edge of his lips. “How goes it?”
“Bien! Muy bien!” said Cipriano, still gazing into the other man’s face with black, wondering, childlike, searching eyes, as if he, Cipriano, were searching for himself, in Ramón’s face. Ramón looked back into Cipriano’s black, Indian eyes with a faint, kind smile of recognition, and Cipriano hung his head as if to hide his face, the black hair, which he wore rather long and brushed sideways, dropping over his forehead.
The women watched in absolute silence. Then, as the two men began slowly to come along the terrace to the tea-table, Carlota began to pour tea. But her hand trembled so much, the teapot wobbled as she held it, and she had to put it down and clasp her hands in the lap of her white muslin dress.
“You rowed on the lake?” said Ramón abstractedly, coming up.
“It was lovely!” said Kate. “But hot when the sun came.”