the stern paternal hand, and then indicate the part
she had to play.

He rang a bell and directed the servant to sum-
mon his daughter, drew himself up to his full height,
and set his rugged face in hard lines. As Concha
entered he looked the Commandante, the stern disci-
plinarian, every inch of him.

There was no trace of the siesta in Concha's
cheeks. They were very white, but her eyes were
steady and her mouth indomitable as she walked
down the sala and took the chair Rezanov placed
for her. Except for her Castilian fairness, she
looked very like the martinet sitting on the other
side of the table. The Commandante regarded her
silently with brows drawn together. Dimly, he felt
apprehension, wondered, in a flash of insight, if girls
held fast to the parental recipe, or recombined with
tongue in cheek. The bare possibility of resistance
almost threw him into panic, but he controlled his
features until the effort injected his eyes and drew
in his nostrils. Concha regarded him calmly, al-
though her heart beat unevenly, for she dreaded the
long strain she foresaw.

"My daughter," said Don Jose finally, his tones
harsh with repressed misgiving, "do you suspect
why I have sent for you?"