For the second time that afternoon Mr. Twist set his teeth.  He defied Elliott.  He defied the Germans.  He would see this thing successful, this Open Arms business, or his name wasn’t Twist.  And he stuck out his jaw—­or would have stuck it out if he hadn’t been prevented by the amiable weakness of that feature.  But spiritually and morally, when he got back into the house he was all jaw.

CHAPTER XXXIV

That night he determined he would go into Acapulco next morning and drop in at his bank and at his lawyer’s and other places, and see if he could pick up anything that would explain why Americans wouldn’t come and have tea at The Open Arms.  He even thought he might look up old Ridding.  He didn’t sleep.  He lay all night thinking.

The evening had been spent tete-a-tete with Anna-Felicitas.  Anna-Rose was in bed, sleeping off her tears; Mrs. Bilton had another headache, and disappeared early; so he was left with Anna-Felicitas, who slouched about abstractedly eating up the remains of ice-cream.  She didn’t talk, except once to remark a little pensively that her inside was dreadfully full of cold stuff, and that she knew now what it must feel like to be a mausoleum; but, eyeing her sideways as he sat before the fire, Mr. Twist could see that she was still smug.  He didn’t talk either.  He felt he had nothing at present to say to Anna-Felicitas that would serve a useful purpose, and was, besides, reluctant to hear any counter-observations she might make.  Watchfulness was what was required.  Silent watchfulness.  And wariness.  And firmness.  In fact all the things that were most foreign to his nature, thought Mr. Twist, resentful and fatigued.

Next morning he had a cup of coffee in his room, brought by Li Koo, and then drove himself into Acapulco in his Ford without seeing the others.  It was another of the perfect days which he was now beginning to take as a matter of course, so many had there been since his arrival.  People talked of the wet days and of their desolate abundance once they started, but there had been as yet no sign of them.  The mornings succeeded each other, radiant and calm.  November was merging into December in placid loveliness.  “Oh yes,” said Mr. Twist to himself sardonically, as he drove down the sun-flecked lane in the gracious light, and crickets chirped at him, and warm scents drifted across his face, and the flowers in the grass, standing so bright and unruffled that they seemed almost as profoundly pleased as Anna-Felicitas, nodded at him, and everything was obviously perfectly contented and happy, “Oh yes—­I daresay.”  And he repeated this remark several times as he looked round him,—­he couldn’t but look, it was all so beautiful.  These things hadn’t to deal with Twinklers.  No wonder they could be calm and bright.  So could he, if—­

He turned a corner in the lane and saw some way down it two figures, a man and a girl, sitting in the grass by the wayside.  Lovers, of course.  “Oh yes—­I daresay,” said Mr. Twist again, grimly.  They hadn’t to deal with Twinklers either.  No wonder they could sit happily in the grass.  So could he, if—­