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Garland heard him without emotion. From long residence near the equator he diagnosed the outbreak as a case of tropic choler, aggravated by nostalgia and fleas.

“I’ll bet you don’t,” he said.

“I’ll bet you your passage-money home,” shouted Everett, “against my passage-money to Europe.”

“Done!” said Garland. “How much time do you want–two years?”

The diplomat exclaimed mockingly:

“Two months!”

“I win now, “said the consul. “I’ll go home and pack.”

The next morning his clerk told Everett that in the outer office Monica Ward awaited him.

Overnight Everett had developed a prejudice against Miss Ward. What Garland had said in her favor had only driven him the wrong way. Her universal popularity he disliked. He argued that to gain popularity one must concede and capitulate. He felt that the sister of an acknowledged crook, no matter how innocent she might be, were she a sensitive woman, would wish to efface herself. And he had found that, as a rule, women who worked in hospitals and organized societies bored him. He did not admire the militant, executive sister. He pictured Miss Ward as probably pretty, but with the coquettish effrontery of the village belle and with the pushing, “good-fellow” manners of the new school. He was prepared either to have her slap him on the back or, from behind tilted eye-glasses, make eyes at him. He was sure she wore eye-glasses, and was large, plump, and Junoesque. With reluctance he entered the outer office. He saw, all in white, a girl so young that she was hardly more than a child, but with the tall, slim figure of a boy. Her face was lovely as the face of a violet, and her eyes were as shy. But shy not through lack of confidence in Everett, nor in any human being, but in herself. They seemed to say, “I am a very unworthy, somewhat frightened young person; but you, who are so big and generous, will overlook that, and you are going to be my friend. Indeed, I see you are my friend.”

Everett stood quite still. He nodded gloomily.

“Garland was right,” he exclaimed; “I do!”

The young lady was plainly distressed.

“Do what?” she stammered.

“Some day I will tell you,” said the young man. “Yes,” he added, without shame, “I am afraid I will.” He bowed her into the inner office.

“I am sorry,” apologized Monica, “but I am come to ask a favor– two favors; one of you and one of the American minister.”

Everett drew his armchair from his desk and waved Monica into it.

“I was sent here,” he said, “to do exactly what you want. The last words the President addressed to me were, ‘On arriving at your post report to Miss Monica Ward.”‘

Fearfully, Monica perched herself on the edge of the armchair; as though for protection she clasped the broad table before her.

“The favor I want,” she hastily assured him, “is not for myself.”

“I am sorry,” said Everett, “for it is already granted.”

“You are very good,” protested Monica.

“No,” replied Everett, “I am only powerful. I represent ninety-five million Americans, and they are all entirely at your service. So is the army and navy.”

Monica smiled and shook her head. The awe she felt was due an American minister was rapidly disappearing, and in Mr. Everett himself her confidence was increasing. The other ministers plenipotentiary she had seen at Camaguay had been old, with beards like mountain-goats, and had worn linen dusters. They always were very red in the face and very damp. Monica decided Mr. Everett also was old; she was sure he must be at least thirty-five; but in his silk pongee and pipe-clayed tennis-shoes he was a refreshing spectacle. Just to look at him turned one quite cool.

“We have a very fine line of battle-ships this morning at Guantanamo,” urged Everett; “if you want one I’ll cable for it.”