treated Don Jose with a certain reserve at their next meeting, until
it brought the simple-minded Castilian so dangerously near the point of
demanding an explanation which implied too much that she was obliged to
restore him temporarily to his old footing. Meantime she had a brilliant
idea. She would write to Calhoun Weaver, whom she had avoided since that
memorable day. She would say she wished to consult him. He would come to
Los Cuervos; he might suggest something to lighten this weary waiting;
at least she would show them all that she had still old friends. Yet she
did not dream of returning to her Blue Grass home; her parents had died
since she left; she shrank from the thought of dragging her ruined life
before the hopeful youth of her girlhood's companions.

Mr. Calhoun Weaver arrived promptly, ostentatiously, oracularly, and
cordially, but a little coarsely. He had--did she remember?--expected
this from the first. Spencer had lost his head through vanity, and
had attempted too much. It required foresight and firmness, as he
himself--who had lately made successful "combinations" which she might
perhaps have heard of--well knew. But Spencer had got the "big head."
"As to that woman--a devilish handsome woman too!--well, everybody knew
that Spencer always had a weakness that way, and he would say--but if
she didn't care to hear any more about her--well, perhaps she was right.
That was the best way to take it." Sitting before her, prosperous,
weak, egotistical, incompetent, unavailable, and yet filled with a vague
kindliness of intent, Mrs. Tucker loathed him. A sickening perception of
her own weakness in sending for him, a new and aching sense of her utter
isolation and helplessness, seemed to paralyze her.

"Nat'rally you feel bad," he continued, with the large air of a profound
student of human nature. "Nat'rally, nat'rally you're kept in an
uncomfortable state, not knowing jist how you stand. There ain't but one