it never interfered with a most self-indulgent nature. Many times I
had begged him to be considerate of some girl who I knew charmed him
for the moment only; but one secret of his success with women was his
unfeigned if brief enthusiasm.

"Let her alone!" I exclaimed. "You cannot marry her. She would go into
a convent before she would sacrifice the traditions of her house. And
if you were not at war, and she married you, you would only make her
miserably happy."

He merely smiled and continued to look me straight in the eyes.




V.


I went upstairs and found Chonita reading Landor's "Imaginary
Conversations." (When Chonita was eighteen,--she was now
twenty-four--Don Alfredo Robinson, one of the American residents,
had at her father's request sent to Boston for a library of several
hundred books, a birthday gift for the ambitious daughter of the
Iturbi y Moncadas. The selection was an admirable one, and a rancho
would not have pleased her as well. She read English and French with
ease, although she spoke both languages brokenly.) As I entered she
laid down the book and clasped her hands behind her head. She looked
tranquil, but less amiable than was her wont.

"Thou hast been far away from the caballeros and the doñas of