It afforded Madeline exceeding pleasure to have from one and all of her guests varied encomiums of her beautiful home, and a real and warm interest in what promised to be a delightful and memorable visit.

Of them all Castleton was the only one who failed to show surprise.  He greeted her precisely as he had when he had last seen her in London.  Madeline, rather to her astonishment, found meeting him again pleasurable.  She discovered she liked this imperturbable Englishman.  Manifestly her capacity for liking any one had immeasurably enlarged.  Quite unexpectedly her old girlish love for her younger sister sprang into life, and with it interest in these half-forgotten friends, and a warm regard for Edith Wayne, a chum of college days.

Helen’s party was smaller than Madeline had expected it to be.  Helen had been careful to select a company of good friends, all of whom were well known to Madeline.  Edith Wayne was a patrician brunette, a serious, soft-voiced woman, sweet and kindly, despite a rather bitter experience that had left her worldly wise.  Mrs. Carrollton Beck, a plain, lively person, had chaperoned the party.  The fourth and last of the feminine contingent was Miss Dorothy Coombs—­Dot, as they called her—­a young woman of attractive blond prettiness.

For a man Castleton was of very small stature.  He had a pink-and-white complexion, a small golden mustache, and his heavy eyelids, always drooping, made him look dull.  His attire, cut to what appeared to be an exaggerated English style, attracted attention to his diminutive size.  He was immaculate and fastidious.  Robert Weede was a rather large florid young man, remarkable only for his good nature.  Counting Boyd Harvey, a handsome, pale-faced fellow, with the careless smile of the man for whom life had been easy and pleasant, the party was complete.

Dinner was a happy hour, especially for the Mexican women who served it and who could not fail to note its success.  The mingling of low voices and laughter, the old, gay, superficial talk, the graciousness of a class which lived for the pleasure of things and to make time pass pleasurably for others—­all took Madeline far back into the past.  She did not care to return to it, but she saw that it was well she had not wholly cut herself off from her people and friends.

When the party adjourned to the porch the heat had markedly decreased and the red sun was sinking over the red desert.  An absence of spoken praise, a gradually deepening silence, attested to the impression on the visitors of that noble sunset.  Just as the last curve of red rim vanished beyond the dim Sierra Madres and the golden lightning began to flare brighter Helen broke the silence with an exclamation.

“It wants only life.  Ah, there’s a horse climbing the hill!  See, he’s up!  He has a rider!”

Madeline knew before she looked the identity of the man riding up the mesa.  But she did not know until that moment how the habit of watching for him at this hour had grown upon her.  He rode along the rim of the mesa and out to the point, where, against the golden background, horse and rider stood silhouetted in bold relief.