Angry tropical insects droned through the room, their vibrating wings translating the torpid heat into sound. She brushed them away from the sleeper's face, bent over and kissed him on the cheek, and fondled the wave in his hair. Playfully she shooed away a little lizard, then returned to her seat by the window and began to sing softly as she sewed. She was very happy. Not that she would have had him wounded—to suffer so—oh Mother Mary in Heaven, no! But if it had to happen, the Blessed Virgin must have sent him to her.
"At first sight!" There is no such love you say. But there is such a glorious thing, sceptic and worldly wiseman notwithstanding. If you have the seeing eye you will find before you grow old or at least then, when the inner eye clears as the outer—dims many witnesses who will testify to the miracle.
Linda could have been one of the witnesses. The miracle had happened over a year ago when into the Café of Many Tongues first came this foreigner with his air of old-world distinction. How well she remembered that! And there he was now, weak and wounded, yet with her, and in her care, which was all that mattered.
He opened his eyes and called:
"Linda!"
"Yes." It was only one word, yet it told many things.
"The yellow paper—the chart! Did you see it?"
She searched everywhere. At the envelopes she looked carefully, jealously studying the handwritings on each.
"No, Monsieur, there is no yellow paper, only these envelopes, three white, and this one of blue."
