“In but a moment dinner will be prepared,” he said.  “If the senores will pardon me, I must go out to the kitchen.  To-night is the big dance, the mascarade, for which Adelita must dress.”  He raised his voice.  “Adela!  Hasten, little one.”

“I am coming,” called a clear girlish voice.

Henderson and I waited in the little parlor.  Back in the house we could hear our host moving about among the pots and pans.  Then from the top of the stairs there sounded a soft voice: 

“Padre—­father!”

Don Lucas dropped his work and stepped into the parlor.

There was a swish, a click of high heels on the stairs, a flash of red, with a momentary glimpse of white, and the girl stood before us.  The father spoke: 

“Senores, my daughter.”

She bent low and then arose, smiling as her father had smiled, showing the white of her teeth.  She was dressed all in red, from the roses in her black hair to her tiny, outrageously high-heeled Spanish slippers.  The hair was parted in the middle and drawn back, giving an almost child-like expression to the handsome face with its snapping black eyes and full red lips.  Under the dark wave behind each ear she had effectively pinned a cluster of rose-buds.  Over her gleaming shoulders she had thrown a scarf of the thinnest red silk, and a similar scarf, fringed with black lace, was drawn about her hips and knotted at the left side.  The heavily ruffled skirts fell within a few inches of the floor, but as she turned they swung higher, showing her slippers and a bit of red silk-covered ankle.  In her hand she dangled a tiny black mask.  Her father looked at her proudly.

“It is the dancing costume of the Old Country,” he explained.  “It is in honor of the mascarade to-night.”

We passed into the little dining-room.  Just before we sat down Henderson managed to whisper to me: 

“Whew!  I guess you’re right about the good-looking girl.”

All through the meal he watched her covertly, and the moment he took his eyes from her face I noticed that she would glance over at him.  Then the second he turned her way her eyes would drop and a dull red would suffuse her face and neck.  Whether Henderson noticed it or not I do not know, but I did.  When the coffee was brought in by Adelita our host opened a box of mellow cigars, and we passed out into the parlor.  In the doorway the girl stopped her father and excitedly whispered in his ear.

“Please,” she pleaded, “you know you are old and do not like to stay so late, and he is young and big and could take as good care of me as you.  Please, padre.”

“Would it be right?” he queried.  Then he thought a moment.  “Perhaps—­”

“Bueno,” she cried.  “Good.  Ask him, padre, please, please.”

The old man smiled.  Then he came over to where Fred and I were standing.

“Did you hear the girl,” he asked, “the little scamp?  She thinks I am too old to take her to the ball—­and too uninteresting.  She wishes to know if the senores would care to go with her in my place.  It would perhaps be interesting to you.”