"To-morrow his luck may be gone." She seized her brother's hat, crushed it down upon his head, and pushed him eagerly out of the door, going with him herself to open the wicket.
She came back then to Salve, and as they sat _tete-a-tete_ in the lamplit room with doors and windows thrown wide open, the moonlight gleaming on the dark trees outside, and the night air perfumed with the scent of flowers, she endeavoured to ingratiate herself with him by pouring out his rum-and-water and by rolling his cigarettes, an art in which it appeared from her laughter and gestures that she thought him awkward.

She was in a state of feverish excitement, and kept darting off to the wicket and back again.
Salve sat and smoked, and sipped his glass unconcernedly, whilst she rocked herself backwards and forwards in a rocking-chair, with her head thrown back, and her eyes steadily fixed upon him.

He heard a sigh, and she said in a low, ingratiating tone-- "I am afraid Federigo is unlucky." Salve was not so stupid as not to comprehend her meaning.

He was quite aware that she was handsome as she sat there with her hand on her knee, and her well-formed foot gracefully brought into view; but his feeling was exclusively one of indignation that such a common Brazilian baggage should presume to bring herself into comparison with Elizabeth.

He flung away his cigar impatiently, and went down into the garden, without attempting to conceal his aversion.