"
A week later Vardri went swinging quickly down the Calle San Antonio,
on his way to Emile's rooms. He was in exuberant spirits, and whistled
as he walked keeping step to the dancing gaiety of '_La petite
Tonquinoise_.' His headgear, which vied in picturesque disorder with
Emile's historical sombrero, was pushed to the back of his head,
exposing his thick, unruly hair, and over one ear, Spanish fashion, he
had stuck a carnation.
There was more money in his pocket than he had possessed since his days
of luxury in the Austrian chateau, and for him the sun was shining in a
metaphorical as well as a literal sense. During the last few days he
had been happier than he could have believed possible. He felt in
better health, for he had been able to go to bed at a reasonable time,
and though he missed the horses and the free life of the Hippodrome,
and found the work of a newspaper office somewhat trying, there were
shorter hours and other advantages.
He had also the joy of knowing that Arithelli was almost well again.
She had not been out yet, but Michael Furness had declared her to be
practically recovered.
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