The Consul-General
The Straits were very calm that night; they seemed a sheet of clear, black glass, star strewn; far out rested a blur of faintly luminous haze, behind which Gibraltar itself loomed dark and menacing. The night was bland and silky, very warm and still with a sort of a sibilant silence, disturbed only by the long soughing of the surf, or by the distant tinkling of mule bells as some belated caravan approached along the Tetuan road, or, again, by the rattle of chips and the busy whirr of the roulette wheels in the salon of the Hôtel d'Angleterre.
It was all very mysterious—Oriental and fascinating; and especially so to O'Rourke, who was never really content unless in a tropic land. He sat there and drank in the atmosphere with appreciation before he answered Senet. And when he did again open his lips, it was to sigh before he paraphrased himself.
"'Tis the divvle of a deal ye have to learn, lad," he said, with some envy in his tone. "One of these days ye'll wake up to the fact that ye have acquired the least suspicion of an insight into Moorish character. But 'tis a far day from this, now I'm telling ye. … I know ye'll not be taking this amiss, me son, but," he pronounced, authoritatively, "at present ye are as innocent as—as—well, more innocent than anything I call to mind this side of Gibraltar. Be thankful 'tis so; innocence is a gloss that too soon wears off."
Young Senet bagan to wag his head argumentatively. "Well," he began, "of course, I know I'm new—"
"Ye are," O'Rourke affirmed solemnly, his twinkling eyes robbing his words of all suspicion of offensiveness. "Green—that's the word. Me boy, ye're no better than a salad. 'Tis truth for ye—and all for no reason in the world but that ye're dacint and a gentleman. Now, I mean ye no
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