But if strong intellectual juices sank into that sweet, pliant kernel, developing it into the perfected form of woman, establishing the current between the brain and the passions, finishing the work, or leaving it half completed, as Circumstance vouchsafed?—­what then?

“Ay, Senor!” exclaimed Prudencia, as two people, mounted on horses glistening with silver, galloped into the court-yard.  “Valencia and Adan!”

I came out of the sala at that moment and watched them alight:  Adan, that faithful, dog-like adorer, of whose kind every beautiful woman has a half-dozen or more, Valencia the bitter-hearted rival of Chonita.  She was a tall, dazzling creature, with flaming black eyes large and heavily lashed, and a figure so lithe that she seemed to sweep downward from her horse rather than spring to the ground.  She had the dark rich skin of Mexico—­another source of envy and hatred, for the Iturbi y Moncadas, like most of the aristocracy of the country, were of pure Castilian blood and as white as porcelain in consequence—­and a red full mouth.

“Welcome, my Chonita!” she cried. “Valgame Dios! but I am glad to see thee back!” She kissed Chonita effusively.  “Ay, my poor brother!” she whispered, hurriedly.  “Tell him that thou art glad to see him.”  And then she welcomed me with words that fell as softly as rose-leaves in a zephyr, and patted Prudencia’s head.

Chonita, with a faint flush on her cheek, gave Adan her hand to kiss.  She had given this faithful suitor little encouragement, but his unswerving and honest devotion had wrung from her a sort of careless affection; and she told me that first night in Monterey that if she ever made up her mind to marry she thought she would select Adan:  he was more tolerable than any one she knew.  It is doubtful if he had crossed her mind since; and now, with all a woman’s unreason, she conceived a sudden and violent dislike for him because she had treated him too kindly in her thoughts.  I liked Adan Menendez; there was something manly and sure about him,—­the latter a restful if not a fascinating quality.  And I liked his appearance.  His clear brown eyes had a kind direct regard.  His chin was round, and his profile a little thick; but the gray hair brushed up and away from his low forehead gave dignity to his face.  His figure was pervaded with the indolence of the Californian.

“At your feet, senorita mia,” he murmured, his voice trembling.

“It gives me pleasure to see thee again, Adan.  Hast thou been well and happy since I left?”

It was a careless question, and he looked at her reproachfully.

“I have been well, Chonita,” he said.

At this moment our attention was startled by a sharp exclamation from Valencia.  Prudencia had announced her engagement.  Valencia had refused many suitors, but she had intended to marry Reinaldo Iturbi y Moncada.  Not that she loved him:  he was the most brilliant match in three hundred leagues.  Within the last year he had bent the knee to the famous coquette; but she had lost her temper one day,—­or, rather, it had found her,—­and after a violent quarrel he had galloped away, and gone almost immediately to Los Angeles, there to remain until Don Juan went after him with a bushel of gold.  She controlled herself in a moment, and swayed her graceful body over Prudencia, kissing her lightly on the cheek.