Page 220 - nostromo-a-tale-of-the-seaboard

have carried so far, though there was enough ardour in his
tone to melt a heart of ice. Antonia turned away abruptly, as
if to carry his whispered assurance into the room behind,
full of light, noisy with voices.
The tide of political speculation was beating high with-
in the four walls of the great sala, as if driven beyond the
marks by a great gust of hope. Don Juste’s fan-shaped
beard was still the centre of loud and animated discussions.
There was a self-confident ring in all the voices. Even the
few Europeans around Charles Gould—a Dane, a couple of
Frenchmen, a discreet fat German, smiling, with down-cast
eyes, the representatives of those material interests that had
got a footing in Sulaco under the protecting might of the
San Tome mine—had infused a lot of good humour into
their deference. Charles Gould, to whom they were paying
their court, was the visible sign of the stability that could
be achieved on the shifting ground of revolutions. They felt
hopeful about their various undertakings. One of the two
Frenchmen, small, black, with glittering eyes lost in an im-
mense growth of bushy beard, waved his tiny brown hands
and delicate wrists. He had been travelling in the interior
of the province for a syndicate of European capitalists. His
forcible ‘Monsieur l’ Administrateur’ returning every min-
ute shrilled above the steady hum of conversations. He was
relating his discoveries. He was ecstatic. Charles Gould
glanced down at him courteously.
At a given moment of these necessary receptions it was
Mrs. Gould’s habit to withdraw quietly into a little draw-
ing-room, especially her own, next to the great sala. She

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