Dom Corria remembered, of course, what San Benavides and his daughter had said when they all met in the ballroom. It seemed to him that Salvador was telling the truth and that Carmela was fibbing on that occasion. But he let well enough alone. It was good for Salvador that he should obey Carmela. He blessed them, and remarked that a really "smart" wedding would be just the thing to inaugurate the new reign at Rio de Janeiro.
He was far more perplexed by the untimely wrath of Philip Hozier. He thought of it for at least five minutes next morning. Then he sought Dickey Bulmer, who had just quitted Coke's bedroom, and was examining the rare shrubs that bordered the lawn.
"What news of that brave man?" asked Dom Corria, and his deep voice vibrated with real feeling.
"First-rate, sir," said Dickey. "The bullet is extracted, and the doctor says 'e'll soon be all right. Leastways, that's wot Iris tells me. I can't talk Portuguese meself, an' pore old Jimmie's langwidge ain't fit to be repeated."
"He is what you call a bundle of contradictions, eh?--a rough fellow with the heart of a bull. But he saved my life, and that naturally counts for a good deal with me. And how is your niece after last night's terrible experience?"
"My niece? D'ye mean Iris?" demanded Bulmer, obviously somewhat annoyed.
"No, sir. That young lady 'as done me the honor of promisin' to be my wife."
"Oh!" said Dom Corria, fixing his brilliant eyes on Bulmer's vexed face.
"There's no 'Oh' about it," growled Dickey. "It was all cut an' dried weeks ago, an' she 'asn't rued of 'er bargain yet, as far as I can make out."
"You mean that the marriage was arranged before the _Andromeda_ sailed?" said Dom Corria gently.
"W'y, of course. It couldn't very well be fixed after, could it?"
"No--not as between you and her. I can vouch for that. Forgive me, Mr. Bulmer--I have a daughter of marriageable age, you know, and I speak as a parent--do you think that it is a wise thing for a man of your years to marry a girl of twenty?"
Then downright Lancashire took hold of the argument.
"Look 'ere, wot are you drivin' at?" demanded Dickey, now in a white heat of anger. He had yet to learn that the President preferred a straight-forward way of talking.