“Does it look well, Don Diego?” asked one girl, holding her head coquettishly on one side.

“It looked better on its vine,” he said, absently.  He was looking for Chonita, who had disappeared.  “Roses are like women:  they lose their subtler fragrance when plucked; but, like women, their heads always droop invitingly.”

“I do not understand thee, Don Diego,” said the girl, fixing her wide innocent eyes on the young man’s inscrutable face.  “What dost thou mean?”

“That thou art sweeter than Castilian roses,” he said and passed on.  “And how is, thy little one?” he asked a young matron whose lithe beauty had won his admiration a year ago, but to whom maternity had been too generous.  She raised her soft brown eyes out of which the coquettish sparkle had gone.

“Beautiful!  Beautiful!” she cried.  “And so smart, Don Diego.  He beats the air with his little fists, and—­Holy Mary, I swear it!—­he winks one eye when I tickle him.”

Estenega sauntered down the garden endeavoring to imagine Chonita fat and classified.  He could not.  He paused beside a woman who did not raise her eyes at once, but coquettishly pretended to be absorbed in the conversation of those about her.  She too had been married a year and more, but her figure had not lost its elegance, and she was very handsome.  Her coquetry was partly fear.  Estenega’s power was felt alike by innocent girls and chaste matrons.  There were few scandals in those days; the women of the aristocracy were virtuous by instinct and rigid social laws; but, how it would be hard to tell, Estenega had acquired the reputation of being a dangerous man.  Perhaps it had followed him back from the city of Mexico, where at one time, he had spent three years as diputado, and whence returned with a brilliant and startling record of gallantry.  A woman had followed on the next ship, and, unless I am much mistaken, Diego passed many uneasy hours before he persuaded her to return to Mexico.  Then old Don Jose Briones’ beautiful young wife was found dead in her bed one morning, and the old women who dressed the body swore that there were marks of hard skinny fingers on her throat.  Estenega had made no secret of his admiration of her.  At different times girls of the people had left Monterey suddenly, and vague rumors had floated down from the North that they had been seen in the redwood forests where Estenega’s ranchos lay.  I asked him, point-blank, one day, if these stories were true, prepared to scold him as he deserved; and he remarked coolly that stories of that sort were always exaggerated, as well as a man’s success with women.  But one had only to look at that face, with its expression of bitter-humorous knowledge, its combination of strength and weakness, to feel sure that there were chapters in his life that no woman outside of them would ever read.  I always felt, when with Diego Estenega, that I was in the presence of a man who had little left to learn of life’s phases and sensations.