Virginia laughed, failing to picture Florrie grown murderous.  But Florrie merely pursed her lips as her eyes followed Galloway down the street.

“I just ask you, Virginia Page,” she said at last, sinking back into the wide arms of her chair with a sigh, “if a man with murder and all kinds of sin on his soul could make love prettily?”

Virginia started.

“You don’t mean . . .” she began quickly.

Florrie laughed, but the other girl noted wonderingly a fresher tint of color in her cool cheeks.

“Goosey!” Florrie tossed her head, drew her skirts down modestly over her white-stockinged ankles and laughed again.  “He never held my hand and all that.  But with his eyes.  Is there any law against a man saying nice things with his eyes?  And how is a girl going to stop him?”

Virginia might have replied that here was a matter which depended very largely upon the girl herself; but instead, estimating that there was little serious love-making on Galloway’s part to be apprehended and taking Florrie as lightly as Florrie took the rest of the world, she was merely further amused.  And already she had learned to welcome amusement of any sort in San Juan town.

But again here was Galloway, stopping now in front of Struve’s, drawing another quick, bright smile from the banker’s daughter, accepting its invitation and coming into the little yard and down the veranda.  Only when he fairly towered over the two girls did he push back the hat which already he had touched to them, standing with his hands on his hips, his heavy features bespeaking a deep inward serenity and quiet good humor.

It would have required a blinder man than Jim Galloway not to have marked the cool dislike and distrust in Virginia’s eyes.  But, though he turned from them to the pink-and-white girl at her side, he gave no sign of sensing that he was in any way unwelcome here.

He had greeted Virginia casually; she, observing him keenly, understood what Florrie had meant by a man’s making love with his eyes.  His look, directed downward into the face smiling up at him, was alive with what was obviously a very genuine admiration.  While Florrie allowed her flattered soul to drink deep and thirstily of the wine of adulation Virginia, only half understanding the writing in Galloway’s eyes, shivered a little and, leaning forward suddenly, put her hand on Florrie’s arm; the gesture, quick and spontaneous, meant nothing to Florrie, nothing to Galloway, and a very great deal to Virginia Page.  For it was essentially protective; it served to emphasize in her own mind a fear which until now had been a mere formless mist, a fear for her frivolous little friend.  Galloway’s whole being was so expressive of conscious power, Florrie’s of vacillating impulsiveness, that it required no considerable burden laid upon the imagination to picture the girl coming if he called . . . if he called with the look in his eyes now, with the tone he knew to put into his voice.