Jovita. Mother of God! Yes,--letters delivered by my father, sent
to HIS CARE, read by him first, of course; letters hoping that I
was well, and obeying my father's commands; letters assuring me of
his unaltered devotion; letters that, compared with the ones he
used to hide in the confessional of the ruined mission church, were
as ice to fire, were as that snow-flower you value so much, Mary,
to this mariposa blossom I wear in my hair. And then to think that
this man--this John Oakhurst, as I knew him; this man who used to
ride twenty miles for a smile from me on the church porch; this Don
Juan who leaped that garden wall (fifteen feet, Mary, if it is an
inch), and made old Concho his stepping-stone; this man, who daily
perilled death for my sake--is changed into this formal, methodical
man of business--is--is--I tell you there's a WOMAN at the bottom
of it! I know it sure!

Miss Mary (aside). How can I tell her about the Duchess? I won't!
(Aloud.) But listen, my dear Jovita. You know he is under
probation for you, Jovita. All this is for you. His father is
cold, methodical, unsympathetic. HE looks only to his bond with
this son,--this son that he treats, even in matters of the heart,
as a BUSINESS partner. Remember, on his complete reformation, and
subjection to his father's will, depends your hand. Remember the
agreement!

Jovita. The agreement; yes! It is the agreement, always the
agreement! May the Devil fly away with the agreement! Look you,
Miss Mary, I, Dona Jovita, didn't fall in love with an agreement:
it was with a man! Why, I might have married a dozen agreements--
yes, of a shorter limitation than this! (Crossing.)