Catalina threw on her dressing-gown and leaned far out of her window. The very air felt as if it had been drenched by the golden shower of the morning sun, and so clear it was, it glittered like the sea. Across the narrow way was a stately white house, doubtless the “palace” of a rich man, and behind it, high above the street, was a beautiful garden, at whose very end, in an angle of the stone wall, stood a palm-tree. Beyond that palm-tree, so delicate and graceful in its peculiar stiffness, was a glimpse of blue water. Far below was a cross street in which no one moved as yet, and beside her were the balcony and garden of the hotel and the vines hanging over the wall.

Catalina sang, in the pure joy of being alive, a snatch of one of the Spanish songs still to be heard in Southern California.

“Buenas dias, seÑorita,” broke in a low and cautious voice, and Catalina, turning with a start and frown, saw that Captain Over was looking round the corner of the balcony.

“If you will come out here,” he continued, “I will make you a cup of coffee, and then we can go for a walk.”

Catalina nodded amiably, and, hastily dressing herself, opened her long window and joined him. He had brought his travelling-lamp and coffee-pot, and the water was simmering. With the exception of a man who was cleaning harness in the court below, they seemed to be the only persons awake. The air was heavy laden with sweet scents, and the garden in the fresh morning light was a riot of color. The Mediterranean was murmuring seductively to the shore.

“This is heaven,” sighed Catalina. “Why can’t one always be free from care like this—the Moultons, to be exact. Let’s you and I and Lydia run away from the rest.”

“When I run away with a woman I shall not take a chaperon,” said Over, coolly.

Catalina could assume the blankness of a mask, but upon repartee she never ventured. “Am I not to do any of the work?” she asked. “I am sick of being waited on. At home I often make my own breakfast before my lazy Mexicans are up, and saddle my horse. I do a great deal of work on the ranch, first and last, for I believe in work—and I didn’t get the idea from TolstoÏ, either. I don’t like TolstoÏ,” she added, defiantly. “He’s one of those gigantic fakes the world always believes in.”

“Well, I’ve never read a line of TolstoÏ,” admitted Captain Over, who was carefully revolving his coffee-machine, “so I can’t argue with you. But work! This is all the work I want.”

“Don’t you love work?”

“I don’t.”

“But you do work.”

“At what?”

“Oh, in the army and all that.”

“My orderly does the work.”

“You are so provoking. There is all sorts of work you must do yourself.”

“Well, why do you remind me of anything so painful, when I am doing my best to forget it? You are not an altruist or a socialist, are you?”

“I’m not anything that some one else has invented. I believe in work, because idleness horrifies me; some primal instinct in me wars against it. The civilization that permits idleness in the rich and in those with just enough to relieve them from work, with none of the responsibilities and diversions of great fortunes, is no civilization at all, to my mind. Of course, I believe in progress, but I believe in hanging on to the conditions which first made progress possible; and when I saw those carriage-loads of ridiculous women and finery in Paris I wanted to go home and till the soil and restore the balance. How good that coffee smells!”

He poured her out a steaming cup. He had raided the kitchen for cream and bread, and he carried sugar with him. No orderly had ever made better coffee.

“What women?” he asked, smiling into her still angry eyes. They were seated at a little table close to the railing and the vines hung down in her hair. Her theories might be crude and somewhat vague, but at least she thought for herself.

She described the morning in the Rue de Rivoli and the procession of American butterflies.

“What can you expect in a new republic of sudden fortunes?” he asked. “Some one must spend the money, and the men haven’t time.”

“Then are your women something besides nerves and clothes—your leisure women?”

“I don’t wish to be rude, but they are. I am, of course, only comparing them with your idle class. I have had no chance to meet any other until now. But I have met scores of rich American women and girls in London and at country-houses, and I’ve come to the conclusion that what is the matter with them—aside from lack of traditions—is that their men leave them nothing to do but spend money and amuse themselves. With us rich women and poor are helpmeets, and what saves our fast set from being as empty-headed as yours is that they have grown up among men of affairs, have heard the great questions discussed all their lives. Then, of course, they are far better educated, and often extremely clever—something more than bright and amusing. Many of them are pretty hard cases, I’m not denying that; but few are silly. They have not had the chance to be, and that is where ancestors come in, too—serious ancestors. Personally, I have never been sensible to the famous charm of the American woman, and although there are exceptions, naturally—I am only generalizing—they strike me in the mass as being shallow, selfish, egotistical, nervous. I suppose the fundamental trouble is that they have so much that an impossible ideal of happiness is the result, and they are restless and dissatisfied because they can’t get it. Possibly in another generation or two they may develop the sort of brain that makes the women of the Old World well balanced and philosophical.”

“Weren’t you ever tempted to marry an heiress?”

“I never saw one that would look at me, so I’ve been spared one temptation, at least.”

Catalina had finished her coffee. She leaned her chin on her hands and gazed at him reflectively. “I should think you could get one,” she said, quite impersonally. “If you weren’t such a practical soul you’d be almost romantic looking, and you’re quite the ideal soldier, besides being a guardsman and well-born. I think if you came to Santa Barbara I could find you a rich girl. Quantities come there for the winter, and they are always delighted to be asked to a ranch.”

“All women are match-makers,” he said, testily. “A poor fellow I left out in South Africa got off just one epigram in his life—‘There are two kinds of women, living women and dead women.’ I believe he was right. Shall we go and see if they will let us into the archbishop’s palace?”