The next day there were races, and in the evening another dance, on the day following a rodeo and merienda.

“How long do they keep this thing up without breaking down?” asked Thorpe, on the evening of the sixth day, and after another race where the women had screamed themselves hoarse, and one man had stabbed another. All were now fraternal and enthusiastic in a cascarone frolic.

“They are made of elastic, as far as pleasure is concerned,” replied Estenega. “If they had to work six hours out of twenty-four, they would be haggard, and weak in the knees.”

Thorpe entered the sala. The furniture, with the exception of the tables, had been removed; and men and women, with the abandon of children, were breaking eggshells, filled with cologne, tinsel, and flour, on the back of each other’s heads. Black hair was flowing to the floor; white teeth were set behind arch tense lips; black eyes were snapping; nostrils were dilating. Even DoÑa Eustaquia and Chonita had joined in the romp. Prudencia, alone, ever mindful of her dignity, stood in a corner, the back of her head protected by the wall. She raised her fan to Thorpe, and he made his way to her under a shower of cascarones. The cologne ran down his neck, and made a paste of flour and tinsel on his head.

“Ay, seÑor!” exclaimed the chÂtelaine of Casa Grande, as he bowed before her. “No is unbecome at all. How you like the way we make the fun?”

Thorpe assured her that life was unmitigated amusement for the first time.

“No? You no laughing at us, seÑor?”

“It has been my good fortune to laugh with you for six days.”

“Si: I theenk you like. I watching you.” Prudencia gave her head a coquettish toss. She was still a very pretty woman, despite her flesh.

“Oh, now you flatter me awfully. Why should you watch your most insignificant guest?”

“You no are the more—how you call him?—eens—bueno! no importa. You are the more honour guest I have. Si you like California, SeÑor Torp, why you no living here?”

“Oh—I—” He had heard that question before, in different circumstances. He was standing with his back to the wall. The brilliant picture before him became the mise-en-scÈne of an opera, the babble of voices its chorus. To his reversed vision, it crowded backward and cohered. And upon its shifting front, upon the wall of light and laughter and beauty, was projected the tragic figure of Nina Randolph.

Thorpe felt that his dark face was visibly paling. A small angry fist seemed to strike his heart, and all his being ached with sudden pity and longing.

A soft hand brushed his. He turned with a start and looked down into the coquettish eyes of his hostess. He noted mechanically that she had a very determined mouth, and that her colour was higher than usual.

“I beg pardon?” he stammered.

“Why you no stay here?” whispered Prudencia.

“Well, I may, you know; my plans are very unsettled.”

“You ever been marry, seÑor?”

“No, seÑora.”

“I have; and I love the husband, before; but so many years that ees now. You think ees possiblee keep on love when the other have been dead twenty years?”

“I think so.”

“Ay! So I theenk once. But no was intend, I theenk, to live ’lone alway.”

“Then why have you never married again, dear seÑora!” Thorpe found the conversation very tiresome.

“Ay! The men here—all are alike the one to the other. Never I marry another Californian.”

“Ah!”

“No!”

His restless eyes suddenly encountered hers. He felt the blood climb to his hair, his breath come short. His hands desperately sought his pockets.

“I am sure, if you went to San Francisco, you would be overwhelmed with offers—from Americans. This room is frightfully warm, don’t you think so, seÑora? Shall I open the door? Ah, what a nuisance! here comes Don Adan Menendez to talk to you, and two other admirers are in his wake. I must release you for the moment. Hasta luego, dear seÑora!”

He made his way rapidly down the room, and out of the house.

“Great heaven!” he thought. “It is well the week is over. Good God, what a travesty!” and he laughed aloud.

He passed through the screaming crowd, which also had its cascarones, and walked rapidly and aimlessly up the valley until the white placid walls of the Mission were so close that he could count its arches. He sat down on a rock, and pressed his hands against his head.

He resented the quiet and beauty of the night, the repose of the Mission, the dark-blue spangled sky, the soft sobbing of the ocean. If Queen Mab and her train had come down to dance on the brink of hell, the antithesis could not have jarred more hatefully than the night upon his thoughts. He felt a desire to strike something, and hit the rock with his fist. He dug his heel into the ground, then thought of the flour and tinsel on his hair, and laughed aloud. After a time he put his face into his hands and wept. The sobs convulsed him, straining his muscles; the tears seemed wrung from some inner frozen fountain.

The storm passed. Calmer, he sat and thought. His love for Nina Randolph, during this interval of quiescence, had lost nothing of its iron. Idealised, she came back to him. Or, rather, he told himself he looked through the husk that the hideous circumstances of her life had bundled into shape, to the soul which spoke to his own. He worshipped her courage. He forgot himself and suffered with her. He hated himself for not having guessed the truth at once, and borne her burden. True, she had lied to him; but the lie was pardonable, and he attached no significance to it. If she had loved him less, she would have confessed the truth, indifferently. Others knew.

Her moods passed in review, with keen allurement. He wondered that he had ever wished her a woman of even and tangible temperament. The thought of her variety intoxicated him. The very equilibrium of the world might be disturbed, but he would have her.

The horror of her impending fate jibbered at him. He set his teeth, and compelled his mind to practical deduction. Her mother was only insane at intervals; there was no reason why the daughter should be affected in a dissimilar manner. Why, indeed, should not her attacks be far less frequent, if she were happy and her life were alternately peaceful and diversified? He would have the best advice in Europe, and guard her unremittingly.

His impulse was to return to her at once. He cogitated until dawn, then concluded to take her father’s advice in part; he would remain away a month, then come down upon her unexpectedly. But he went to his room and wrote her a letter, begging for a word in return.

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