Page 202 - nostromo-a-tale-of-the-seaboard

of feminine and intimate delicacy.
Don Jose in his rocking-chair placed his hat on his lap,
and Decoud walked up and down the whole length of the
room, passing between tables loaded with knick-knacks
and almost disappearing behind the high backs of leathern
sofas. He was thinking of the angry face of Antonia; he was
confident that he would make his peace with her. He had
not stayed in Sulaco to quarrel with Antonia.
Martin Decoud was angry with himself. All he saw and
heard going on around him exasperated the preconceived
views of his European civilization. To contemplate revo-
lutions from the distance of the Parisian Boulevards was
quite another matter. Here on the spot it was not possible
to dismiss their tragic comedy with the expression, ‘Quelle
farce!’
The reality of the political action, such as it was, seemed
closer, and acquired poignancy by Antonia’s belief in the
cause. Its crudeness hurt his feelings. He was surprised at
his own sensitiveness.
‘I suppose I am more of a Costaguanero than I would
have believed possible,’ he thought to himself.
His disdain grew like a reaction of his scepticism against
the action into which he was forced by his infatuation for
Antonia. He soothed himself by saying he was not a patriot,
but a lover.
The ladies came in bareheaded, and Mrs. Gould sank low
before the little tea-table. Antonia took up her usual place
at the reception hour—the corner of a leathern couch, with
a rigid grace in her pose and a fan in her hand. Decoud,

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