"You have come out yourself! No less could be expected from a Decoud.
Alas! our worst fears have been realized," he moaned, affectionately.
And again he hugged his god-son. This was indeed the time for men of
intellect and conscience to rally round the endangered cause.
It was then that Martin Decoud, the adopted child of Western Europe,
felt the absolute change of atmosphere. He submitted to being embraced
and talked to without a word. He was moved in spite of himself by that
note of passion and sorrow unknown on the more refined stage of European
politics. But when the tall Antonia, advancing with her light step in
the dimness of the big bare Sala of the Avellanos house, offered him her
hand (in her emancipated way), and murmured, "I am glad to see you here,
Don Martin," he felt how impossible it would be to tell these two people
that he had intended to go away by the next month's packet. Don Jose,
meantime, continued his praises. Every accession added to public
confidence, and, besides, what an example to the young men at home
from the brilliant defender of the country's regeneration, the worthy
expounder of the party's political faith before the world! Everybody had
read the magnificent article in the famous Parisian Review. The world
was now informed: and the author's appearance at this moment was like
a public act of faith. Young Decoud felt overcome by a feeling of
impatient confusion. His plan had been to return by way of the United
States through California, visit Yellowstone Park, see Chicago, Niagara,
have a look at Canada, perhaps make a short stay in New York, a longer
one in Newport, use his letters of introduction. The pressure of
Antonia's hand was so frank, the tone of her voice was so unexpectedly
unchanged in its approving warmth, that all he found to say after his
low bow was--
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