the consul asked. “Certainly not, Enrique. What I want is to listen to Gil Avellana’s broadcast.” “Has Vidal planted a policeman on you?” “That would be most improper, with two unmarried girls under my roof. But the street crawls with the hyenas of Vidalismo. To their grave embarrassment I send out a tray of refreshments every two hours. No, I am here because I do not wish to compromise any of my friends by encouraging them to call on me at the hour when Gil Avellana, as we are not supposed to know, is addressing the nation. On the other hand, I do not wish to listen to him alone. I require a steadying influence such as yours, Enrique, to prevent me from weeping, smashing the set or sending a telegram of protest to the United Nations when I do not quite know what to protest about.” Juan de Fonsagrada lowered himself into an immense, leather-covered chair and accepted a drink. Henry Penruddock’s private sitting room was extremely comfortable, almost without color — for curtains and cushions had long since lost whatever they had — and had evidently been modeled once and for all upon the indestructible amenities of a London club.
