For Don Quesada, though well past the meridian of life, is not without susceptibility to feminine charms.
"I have the pleasure of addressing Don Manuel de Quesada, I believe?" says the fair visitor in English.
"The pleasure is mine, madam."
"I am under the embarrassment of introducing myself," with a smile and a glance from a pair of liquid black eyes that instantly win for her the good-will of the master of the quinta. She tenders a bit of cardboard, and as the Don receives it with a bow, she explains: "When I left New York I had a letter of introduction from a gentleman who has the honor of your acquaintance"—she glances at the coachman standing near, and lowers her voice—"Don Rafael Manada."
"Ah!" murmurs Quesada, regarding his visitor with new interest.
"But I must have left it among my effects at Santiago. I certainly have not lost it, as I was too thoroughly instructed as to the importance of keeping its contents a secret," the lady finishes, with a meaning smile.
Quesada extends his hand and presses slightly the dainty palm laid therein. "Any of Don Manada's friends are welcome here," he says. "I am happy to place the quinta at your disposition, and its occupants are yours to command, madam."
Quesada leads the way into the house, whither Juanita has retired to add a few touches to her toilet.
"You are an American, Mrs. Harding," ventures the Don, as they pass through the long, wide corridor to the gallery at the rear of the quinta and the lady is provided with the easiest of chairs.
"My accent told you that immediately," is the smiling response. "Yes; I am the widow of an American ship-owner, who left to me, among other possessions, a sugar plantation somewhere in this fair isle. I had the pleasure of Don Manada's acquaintance in New York, and when he heard that I purposed visiting Cuba to view my possessions, he desired that I seek you, giving me at the same time the letter of introduction which, as I have said, I have unfortunately left at my hotel in Santiago.
