you have said it, knowing David Weatherbee as you did? No matter what kind
of a woman she is, you should have remembered she was his wife and
respected her for his sake."

"Respect? I do respect her. She's the kind of woman a man sets on a
pedestal to worship and glorify. You don't understand it, Hollis; you
don't know her, and I can't explain; but just her presence is an appeal,
an inspiration to all that's worth anything in me."

Tisdale's hands sought his pockets; his head dropped forward a little and
he stood regarding Foster with an upward look from under frowning brows.

"You don't know her," Foster repeated. "She's different--finer than other
women. And she has been gently bred. Generations of the best blood is
bottled like old wine in her crystal body." He paused, his face
brightening at the fancy. "You can always see the spirit sparkling
through."

"I remember about that blue blood," Tisdale said tersely. "Weatherbee told
me how it could be traced back through a Spanish mother to some
buccaneering adventurer, Don Silva de y somebody, who made his
headquarters in Mexico. And that means a trace of Mexican in the race, or
at least Aztec."

Foster colored. "The son of that Don Silva came north and settled in
California. He brought his peons with him and made a great rancheria. At
the time of the Mexican War, his herds and flocks covered immense ranges.
Hundreds of these cattle must have supplied the United States commissary;
the rest were scattered, and in the end there was little left of the
estate; just a few hundred acres and a battered hacienda. But Mrs.