The girl was very pale, with black hair and wide eyes under a fair, wide
brow. She was simply dressed in some sort of white stuff. I thought she
drooped a little. She did not look at me, nor speak to me; only bowed
slightly.

We went at once into a dining room at the end of the little dark hall.
It was lighted by a suspended lamp that threw the illumination straight
down on a table perfect in its appointments of napery, silver, and
glass. I felt very awkward and dusty in my cowboy rig; and rather too
large. The same Mexican served us, deftly. We had delightful food, well
cooked. I do not remember what it was. My attention was divided between
the old man and his daughter. He talked, urbanely, of a wide range of
topics, displaying a cosmopolitan taste, employing a choice of words and
phrases that was astonishing. The girl, who turned out to be very pretty
in a dark, pale, sad way, never raised her eyes from her plate.

It was the cool of the evening, and a light breeze from the open window
swung the curtains. From the blackness outside a single frog began to
chirp. My host's flow of words eddied, ceased. He raised his head
uneasily; then, without apology, slipped from his chair and glided from
the room. The Mexican remained, standing bolt upright in the dimness.

For the first time the girl spoke. Her voice was low and sweet, but
either I or my aroused imagination detected a strained under quality.

"Ramon," she said in Spanish, "I am chilly. Close the window."

The servant turned his back to obey. With a movement rapid as a snake's
dart the girl's hand came from beneath the table, reached across, and