Don Roberto rose as they approached. He did not take off his skull-cap,
but he received them with the courtly grace of the caballero, one of his
inheritances which he had not permanently discarded, although he
practised what he was pleased to call his American manners in the
sanctity of his home.
He bowed low, kissed their finger-tips, and handed them in turn to the
chairs which he first arranged in a semi-circle about his own. When he
resumed his former half-reclining attitude he had the air of an invalid
sultan holding audience.
"We are _so_ sorry that you have _such_ a dreadful cold," said Tiny,
with her sweetest smile and emphasis; "and _so_ glad that we happened to
drive up. You couldn't come for a drive with us, could you? We should
_love_ to have you."
Don Roberto rose to the bait at once. He was as susceptible to the
blandishments of pretty women as Jack Belmont, although their influence
over his purse was an independent matter.
"Very glad I am that I have the cold," he answered gallantly; "for it
give me the company of three so beautiful ladies. I no can go for drive,
for it blow, perhaps; but I no care, so long as you here with me sit."
"Well, we are going to stay a _long_ time; and we are _so_ glad we are
back in Menlo again,--so many of us together. We used to love so to come
here; it seems _ages_ ago. And now that we have got 'Léna again, you
must expect us to fairly overrun the house."
"It is yours," said Don Roberto, in the old vernacular. "Burn it if you
will."
Tiny, who had never heard even an anecdote of the early Californians,
gave a quick glance at the whiskey flask, but replied undauntedly,--
"How gallant you are, Don Roberto! The young men say such stupid things.
But you _always_ were so original!"
"Poor old dear, I feel like wiping it off," whispered Rose to Ila.
But it was evident that Don Roberto's vision was powdered with the
golden dust of flattery. He smiled approvingly into Tiny's pretty face.
"But I say true, and the young mens do not sometimes. It make me young
again to see you here."
"One would think you were _old_," said Tiny. "But do you _really_ like
to see us here? Should you mind if we came sometimes in the evening? It
would be such _fun_ to meet at each other's houses and talk on the
verandahs."
"Come all the evenings," said Don Roberto, promptly, "si you talk to me
sometimes."
"_I_ want to do that. Ila plays, and Rose sings _beau_tifully. Some
evening we will get up charades--to amuse you."
"On Saturday, Sunday, Tuesday, and Thursday nights I am here."
"Those will be our evenings to come here." She gave a peremptory glance
to Rose, who responded hurriedly, "Are you fond of music, Don Roberto?
It will give me great pleasure to sing for you; and Ila has been
learning some of my accompaniments."
Don Roberto did not answer for a moment. His memory had played him a
trick: it had leaped back to the days of guitars and gratings. He rarely
sought the society of gentlewomen, not, at least, of those whose names
were on visiting lists. There was something unexpectedly sweet and
fragrant in the company of these three beautiful girls. Don Roberto's
memories were hanging in a dusty cupboard, and his heart had shrunken
like the meat of a nut too long neglected; but there was life at the
core, and the memories came forth, wanting only a breath to dust them.
Yes, he should like to have these girls about him. And Magdaléna had
lived the life of a hermit. It was time for her to enjoy her girlhood.
"Yes," he said, "alway I like the music. Si the piano need tune, I send
one man down. You can dance, too, si you like it. Always I like see the
young peoples dance."
Tiny clapped her hands. Ila leaned forward and patted his hand.
"What an inspiration!" she exclaimed. "This will be a simply gorgeous
house to dance in. Don Roberto, you certainly are an angel!"
Don Roberto had never been called an angel before, but he smiled
approvingly. "Some night this week we have the dance," he said. "My wife
write you to-night."
"I am on the verge of nervous prostration," whispered Rose, as his
attention was claimed by Mrs. Cartright. "The effort of keeping my
countenance--but the way you handle a trowel, Tiny, is a new chapter in
diplomacy. Butter and molasses for fifty and after; a vaporiser and
_peau d'espagne_ for the sharp young things. I was just saying," she
added hastily, as Don Roberto reclined suddenly and turned to her, "that
young men are a nuisance. I am thinking of writing a book of advice--"
"A book!" cried Don Roberto, his brows rushing together. "You no write
the books?"
"Of course she would never publish," interposed Tiny. "She would just
write it for our amusement. I think it would be so horrid to publish the
_cleverest_ book," she said, turning to Magdaléna, unmistakable
sincerity in her voice. "It has always seemed to me so--so--_horrid_ for
women to write things to print--for _anybody_ to read."
Magdaléna did not answer her. She was staring at her father, breathless
for his next words.
"The ladies never write," announced that grandson of old Spain. "Nor the
gentlemens. Always the common peoples write the books."
"Oh, it's better now, really," said Rose. "Some people that write are
said to be quite nice. Of course, one doesn't meet them in society,--in
San Francisco society, at least,--but that may be the fault of society."
"Of course," said Tiny. "I do not mean that people who write must be
horrid. But I think I couldn't know a woman who made her name so
public,--I mean if I hadn't been fond of her before; but I should really
_hate_ to see a friend's name in print. You are not really thinking of
writing a book, are you, Rose, dear?"
"I have not the slightest idea of writing a book--for the very good
reason that I haven't brains enough. You needn't worry about any of us
adding to the glory of California--unless, to be sure, 'Léna should be
clever enough."
She spoke at random, and Magdaléna's face did not betray her; but she
almost hated the girl who was forcing her to another of her mental
crises.
"My daughter write!" shouted Don Roberto. "A Yorba! She make a fool de
my name like the play-actor that do the monkey tricks on the stage? Si
she do that--"
"Here comes Mr. Trennahan," said Magdaléna, standing up. "Mamma is not
here. I must go to meet him."
Trennahan threw the reins to his groom and sprang out of the cart. "I
could not wait till evening, you see," he said, as he came up the steps.
"What is the matter? Something has gone wrong with you."