The black brocade mules by her bed were
characteristic of her--useless charming objects that had cost twenty,
thirty, dollars. Their sliding tap on the glazed floor was an
appreciable part of his happiness; Savina's bottles on a dressing-table
were engraved crystal with gold stoppers: it was all as it should be.
* * * * *
When she returned she redressed her hair, drawing it back across her
ears, put in at a provocative angle a fan-like carved shell comb, and
twisted a shawl of flame-colored silk--it was a manton, she instructed
him--about her shoulders. The guise of Andalusia was very becoming to
her. For a dinner, Savina wore the filmy white and emeralds; they went
to a restaurant like a pavilion on a roof, their table, by a low
masonry wall, overlooking the harbor entrance. The heat of the day,
cloaked in night, was cooled by the trade wind moving softly across the
sea; the water of the harbor was black, like jet shining with the
reflections of the lights strung along the shore; the lighthouse at
Morro Castle marked the rocky thrust of the land. The restaurant was
crowded: beyond Lee were four officers of the Spanish navy in snowy
linen and corded gilt; in the subdued light the faces of women, under
wide flowery hats, were illusive and fascinating; everywhere the deep
crimson of Castilian wines was set against the amber radiance of
champagne.
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