“You know nothing, Jose.”

“I know that I will never waste my cooking on a woman.  I will enter a monastery of fat monks first and cook for them.  They will appreciate it.  But to return to Saint Harry and your daughter now—­”

“Come,” said Gallito harshly, pushing back his chair, “it is time you went home.  The ladies,” indicating Mrs. Nitschkan and Mrs. Thomas, who had been getting on their capes and hoods, “are waiting for you to escort them.”

CHAPTER X

As the day drew near upon which Pearl expected to meet Hanson again all things seemed, as if by some special arrangement with the Fates, to accommodate themselves to her plans.  She had intended to ask Seagreave for the use of his private parlor among the pines, intimating that she desired to retire thither to practice some new steps, and, lo! the night before, after discussing weather probabilities with her father and Jose, he had decided to spend the greater part of the day in the village laying in a full stock of winter provisions.

Hughie also would be in the village, making arrangements for the event of the evening and seeing that the piano was properly installed and tuned.  Gallito would of course be at the Mont d’Or, and as for Jose, he had announced his intention of assisting Mrs. Thomas in the making of some delicate and elaborate cakes, difficult of composition and of which Pearl was especially fond, and also of constructing certain delicious pastries.  No one could think of Jose as merely cooking; the results of his genius justified the use of such high-sounding words as “composing” or “constructing.”  Thus, his morning would be fully occupied.

Propitious Fates!  Her pathway was smoothed before her; yet, alas! such is the perversity of the human mind, that as the morning dawned, as the minutes ticked themselves away on the clock, as the hour drew near when she should again meet Hanson, after all these months of separation, her spirit grew heavier instead of lighter.  There was a return of listlessness and an indifference to his coming which constantly increased.  She even felt indifferent to her own appearance.

At last, reluctantly, she threw a lace scarf about her head and, wrapping a long, crimson cloak about her, she left the cottage and took her way slowly up the hill.

As it was yet far too early for her rendezvous she turned aside from the main road and followed the narrow mountain trail which led to the cabin occupied by Mrs. Nitschkan and Mrs. Thomas.  The gypsy, in her usual careless, almost masculine attire, stood in the door of her cabin gazing out at the mountains in all their mellow and triumphant glory, the evanescent glory of late autumn.  A pick and fishing rod lay across the door sill and a lean, flea-bitten dog dozed at her feet.  Her arms were akimbo and a pipe was thrust between her teeth.