tell that by the flicker of a jeering, self-conscious smile that passed across many faces, and the exclamation: “General Viedma! Don Cipriano!”
He came towards Kate, saluting and bowing with a brittle shyness.
“I am General Viedma. Did you wish to leave? Let me get you an automobile,” he said, in very English English, that sounded strange from his dark face, and a little stiff on his soft tongue.
His eyes were dark, quick, with the glassy darkness that she found so wearying. But they were tilted up with a curious slant, under arched black brows. It gave him an odd look of detachment, as if he looked at life with raised brows. His manner was superficially assured, underneath perhaps half-savage, shy and farouche, and deprecating.
“Thank you so much,” she said.
He called to a soldier in the gateway.
“I