Signor
Rodriguez, whom they knew to be the manager of the hotel, stood quite
near them in the doorway surveying the scene--the gentlemen lounging in
chairs, the couples leaning over coffee-cups, the game of cards in the
centre under profuse clusters of electric light. He was congratulating
himself upon the enterprise which had turned the refectory, a cold stone
room with pots on trestles, into the most comfortable room in the house.
The hotel was very full, and proved his wisdom in decreeing that no
hotel can flourish without a lounge.
The people were scattered about in couples or parties of four, and
either they were actually better acquainted, or the informal room made
their manners easier. Through the open window came an uneven humming
sound like that which rises from a flock of sheep pent within hurdles at
dusk. The card-party occupied the centre of the foreground.
Helen and Rachel watched them play for some minutes without being able
to distinguish a word. Helen was observing one of the men intently. He
was a lean, somewhat cadaverous man of about her own age, whose profile
was turned to them, and he was the partner of a highly-coloured girl,
obviously English by birth.
Suddenly, in the strange way in which some words detach themselves from
the rest, they heard him say quite distinctly:--
"All you want is practice, Miss Warrington; courage and practice--one's
no good without the other.
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