Martel Savigno showed a row of even, white teeth beneath his military
mustache and clapped his friend affectionately on the back.

"It is good to be among my own people. I find, after all, that I am a
Sicilian. But let me tell you, that train is not always late. Once,
seven years ago, it arrived upon the moment. There were no passengers
at the station to meet it, however, so it was forced to wait, and now,
in order to keep our good-will it always arrives thus."

The Count was a well-set-up youth of an alert and active type, tall,
dark, and vivacious, with a skin as smooth as a girl's. He had an
impulsive, energetic nature that seldom left him in repose, and hence
the contrast between the two men was marked, for Blake was of a more
serious cast of features and possessed a decidedly Anglo-Saxon
reserve. He was much the heavier in build, also, which detracted from
his height and robbed him of that elegance which distinguished the
young Sicilian. Yet the two made a fine-looking pair as they stood
face to face in the yellow glare of the station lights.

"What the deuce made me agree to this trip, I don't know," the
American declared. "It was vile. I've been carsick, seasick, homesick--"

"And all for poor, lovesick Martel!" The Count laughed. "Ah, but if
you knew how glad I am to see you!"

"Really? Then that squares it." Blake spoke with that indefinable
undernote which creeps into men's voices when friend meets friend.
"I've been lost without you, too. I was quite ashamed of myself."