
one arm over the back of his chair. His face was calm with that immobility of
expression which betrays the intensity of a mental struggle. He felt that this
accident had brought to a point all the consequences involved in his line of
conduct, with its conscious and subconscious intentions. There must be an end
now of this silent reserve, of that air of impenetrability behind which he had
been safe-guarding his dignity. It was the least ignoble form of dissembling
forced upon him by that parody of civilized institutions which offended his
intelligence, his uprightness, and his sense of right. He was like his father.
He had no ironic eye. He was not amused at the absurdities that prevail in this
world. They hurt him in his innate gravity. He felt that the miserable death of
that poor Decoud took from him his inaccessible position of a force in the
background. It committed him openly unless he wished to throw up the game - and
that was impossible. The material interests required from him the sacrifice of
his aloofness - perhaps his own safety too. And he reflected that Decoud's
separationist plan had not gone to the bottom with the lost silver.
    The only thing that was not changed was his position towards Mr. Holroyd.
The head of silver and steel interests had entered into Costaguana affairs with
a sort of passion. Costaguana had become necessary to his existence; in the San
Tomé mine he had found the imaginative satisfaction which other minds would get
from drama, from art, or from a risky and fascinating sport. It was a special
form of the great man's extravagance, sanctioned by a moral intention, big
enough to flatter his vanity. Even in this aberration of his genius he served
the progress of the world. Charles Gould felt sure of being understood with
precision and judged with the indulgence of their common passion. Nothing now
could surprise or startle this great man. And Charles Gould imagined himself
writing a letter to San Francisco in some such words: » ... The men at the head
of the movement are dead or have fled; the civil organization of the province is
at an end for the present; the Blanco party in Sulaco has collapsed inexcusably,
but in the characteristic manner of this country. But Barrios, untouched in
Cayta, remains still available. I am forced to take up openly the plan of a
provincial revolution as the only way of placing the enormous material interests
involved in the prosperity and peace of Sulaco in a position of permanent safety
...« That was clear. He saw these words as if written in letters of fire upon
the
