"It is nod possib' to ezcape him, aldough de Cafe des Exiles is differen from de rez." "It's different from the Cafe des Refugies," suggested the Irishman.
"Differen' as possib'," replied M.D'Hemecourt He looked about upon the walls.

The shelves were luscious with ranks of cooling sirups which he alone knew how to make.

The expression of his face changed from sadness to a gentle pride, which spoke without words, saying--and let our story pause a moment to hear it say: "If any poor exile, from any island where guavas or mangoes or plantains grow, wants a draught which will make him see his home among the cocoa-palms, behold the Cafe des Exiles ready to take the poor child up and give him the breast! And if gold or silver he has them not, why Heaven and Santa Maria, and Saint Christopher bless him! It makes no difference.

Here is a rocking-chair, here a cigarette, and here a light from the host's own tinder.

He will pay when he can." As this easily pardoned pride said, so it often occurred; and if the newly come exile said his father was a Spaniard--"Come!" old M.
D'Hemecourt would cry; "another glass; it is an innocent drink; my mother was a Castilian." But, if the exile said his mother was a Frenchwoman, the glasses would be forthcoming all the same, for "My father," the old man would say, "was a Frenchman of Martinique, with blood as pure as that wine and a heart as sweet as this honey; come, a glass of orgeat;" and he would bring it himself in a quart tumbler.
Now, there are jealousies and jealousies.