"You see," he went on more volubly, "I was, to some extent, connected with the death of Santacilla, an officer of the regiment of Isabel, and they may still be looking for information about that."
She assured him he was wrong. "It is Cuba that troubles them. It's in their heads you are close to powerful families here and in North America, and that you are bringing them together, pouring Northern gold into the empty pockets of the Revolution. I saw at once, before I met you, that I should waste my time, and I was going away at once ... until you walked into the restaurant. Now it will amuse me, and I shall take the doblons I get and buy you a present, a ruby, and, when you see Captain de Vaca, you will wear it and smile and he will know nothing."
"You mustn't buy me anything," Charles protested earnestly; "I can at least understand that, how generous you are. If you are unfamiliar with Cuba perhaps you will let me inform you. I came to Havana, you see, for my lungs. They were bad, and now they are good; and that is my history here. There is no hole in them because I have been careful to avoid the troubles on the street; and the way to miss them is not to give them an admission. The reason I am here with you is because you seemed to me, in yourself, so far away from all that. Your mind might be in China." He went on to make clear to her his distrust of women. "But you are different; you are like a statue that has come to life, a very lovely statue. What you really are doesn't matter, I don't care, I shall never know. But a water lily--that is enough."
"Are you wise or no deeper than this?" she asked, indicating the shallow fountain. "But don't answer; how, as you say, can it affect us? You are you and I am I. We might even love each other with no more; that would be best--it is the more that spoils love."
But, relapsing into immobility, she ignored his question. Beyond doubt his interest in her had increased; it was an attraction without name, yet none the less potent. Seated close beside him she still seemed to be fashioned from a vital material other than flesh and blood; she was like a creation of sheer magic ... for what end? They rose, leaving the Botanical Gardens, the spotted orchids and air plants and oleanders, for the Quinta. There they passed into a walk completely arched over with the bushes of the Mar Pacifico, the rose of the Pacific, a verdurous tunnel of leaves and broad fragrant pink blooms, with a farther glimpse of a cascade over mossy rocks.