Flames Coming out of the Top by Norman Collins

desire for action which is one of the defects of the English character. And it is such a
young
fault. When people say that the British Empire is declining they forget that fact. Nations do not decline as you would call it so long as there are men who wish to do things—even little things like playing instead of listening. With us, I sometimes fear we are content so long as we can
think
of doing things.”
    There was a pause. Dunnett was not sure whether Señor Muras’s disquisition required any answer. Instead of replying he sat back and let his eye roam round the room. It was large and raftered and spacious. He rather enjoyed thinking of himself in such surroundings.
    â€œMy daughter is looking forward to this meeting,” Señor Muras resumed. “At her age she does not reconcile herself so easily to solitude.”
    â€œDoes she live here all the time?” Dunnett asked.
    â€œShe has just come here,” Señor Muras replied. “Until now, a convent. She thought at one time that she had found her vocation. But the nuns dissuaded her. I am very thankful that God could spare her”—he devoutly crossed himself. “They are strange, these workings of Providence, do you not think, Señor Dunnett?”
    â€œVery strange, very strange indeed,” Dunnett replied. He was conscious of an obligation to shoulder his share of the conversation. With Señor Muras so prodigal, it seemed discourteous to remain silent.
    A servant entered, carrying glasses on a tray. They held champagne. Dunnett took one. “You must excuse my wife,” Señor Muras remarked. “She is resting. She would not wish us to wait.”
    At that moment the evening stillness of the
hacienda
was broken by the sound of someone—a girl—singing. Señor Muras crossed to the window and threw it open.
    â€œThat,” he said proudly, “is my daughter.”
    The words of the song came through, clearer now. They filled the room where the listeners waited.
    â€œIf you’ll be my sweetie”
the voice went on
    â€œYou’ll sing to me
    Tweet, tweet, tweet, tweetie
    Like a bird in the tree.”
    The singer stopped abruptly, as though she had suddenly remembered something else to do, and Señor Muras came away from the window. “It was an American convent she was at,” he remarked affectionately.
    Dunnett stood for a while at the window looking out. It was a golden evening, beautiful and still. The
hacienda
, set in a shallow saucer of land, seemed to rest in a perpetual atmosphere of peace, as though the rush and turmoil of the world swept heedlessly over the edge and left everything inside untouched. A hundred feet from the house two large black birds with bare, muscular necks were stooping over something that lay on the ground, and tearing off bright scarlet strips of it with the motion of the thrush tugging at the worm. Dunnett could hear the ripping sound they made, and the scraping of their wing tips on the ground as they steadied themselves before taking a bite.
    â€œYou’ve got a nice place out here,” he remarked politely.
    â€œYou like it?” Señor Muras remarked in a surprised tone of voice. “I had scarcely hoped for that. For my part I find it a tomb; a remote, melancholy tomb. We try to disguise it, but that is all we can do. How can one make a house beautiful without people? And we live so quietly. In all, we are only three.” He raised his glass to his lips and emptied it. “Before we came here,” he said regretfully, “we lived in the centre. Such crowds! Such stimulation! At midnight we had to close the windows for the noise; I swear it. And now here at midnight the grave itself would be gayer. More champagne, Mr. Dunnett?”
    Before Dunnett could reply, the door had opened andSeñorita Muras was standing there. She was dressed all in white and wore a crown of artificial white flowers in her hair. She remained