"Thus my father dreamed of it....
But you will pardon us, Don Adrian, for you have other things in mind
than Yerb--than San Francisco's future. See, my little one! Even now she
comes to bid you welcome."
Inez as she joined them gave her hand to Stanley. "Ah, Don Adrian, your
color is high"--her tone was bantering, mock-anxious. "You have not,
perchance, a touch of fever?"
He eyed her hungrily. "If I have," he spoke with that slow gentleness
she loved so well, "it is no fever that requires roots or herbs....
Shall I," he came a little closer, "shall I put a name to it, Senorita?"
His words were for her ears alone. Her eyes smiled into his. "Come, let
us show you the rose garden, Senor Stanley," she said with playful
formality and placed her silk-gloved fingers on his arm.
Senora Windham's hand groped for her husband's. There were tears in her
eyes, but he bent down and kissed them away. "Anita, mia, do not grieve.
He is a good lad."
"It is not that." She hid her face against his shoulder. "It is not
that--"
"I understand," he whispered.
After a little time Benito spoke. "Mother, I learned something from the
warring of the rancheros aganist Alcalde Bartlett.
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