presently. "I doubt if he has said any for a long while. And he knows my
music. He is of educated people. He cannot be American. And now--yes, he
has taken--I think it must be a flower, from his pocket. I shall have him
to dine with me." And vespers ended with rosy clouds of eagerness
drifting across the Padre's brain.



II

But the stranger made his own beginning. As the priest came from the
church, the rebellious young figure was waiting. "Your organist tells
me," he said, impetuously, "that it is you who--"

"May I ask with whom I have the great pleasure of speaking?" said the
Padre, putting formality to the front and his pleasure out of sight.

The stranger's face reddened beneath its sun-beaten bronze, and he became
aware of the Padre's pale features, molded by refinement and the world.
"I beg your lenience," said he, with a graceful and confident utterance,
as of equal to equal. "My name is Gaston Villere, and it was time I
should be reminded of my manners."

The Padre's hand waved a polite negative.

"Indeed, yes, Padre. But your music has amazed me. If you carried such
associations as--Ah! the days and the nights!"--he broke off. "To come
down a California mountain and find Paris at the bottom! The Huguenots,
Rossini, Herold--I was waiting for Il Trovatore."