Don Pablo sat by Eulogia, a place he very often managed to fill; but he never had seen her for a moment alone.

“I must go soon, Eulogia,” he murmured, as the voices waxed louder.  “Duty calls me back to Monterey.”

“I am glad to know thou hast a sense of thy duty.”

“Nothing but that would take me away from San Luis Obispo.  But both my mother and—­and—­a dear friend are ill, and wish to see me.”

“Thou must go to-night.  How canst thou eat and be gay when thy mother and—­and—­a dear friend are ill?”

“Ay, Eulogia! wouldst thou scoff over my grave?  I go, but it is for thee to say if I return.”

“Do not tell me that thou adorest me here at the table.  I shall blush, and all will be about my smarting ears like the bees down in the padre’s hive.”

“I shall not tell thee that before all the world, Eulogia.  All I ask is this little favour:  I shall send thee a letter the night I leave.  Promise me that thou wilt answer it—­to Monterey.”

“No, sir!  Long ago, when I was twelve, I made a vow I would never write to a man.  I never break that vow.”

“Thou wilt break it for me, Eulogia.”

“And why for you, senor?  Half the trouble in the world has been made on paper.”

“Oh, thou wise one!  What trouble can a piece of paper make when it lies on a man’s heart?”

“It can crackle when another head lies on it.”

“No head will ever lie here but—­”

“Mine?”

“Eulogia!”

“To thee, Senorita Dona Eulogia,” cried a deep voice.  “May the jewels in thine eyes shine by the stars when thou art above them.  May the tears never dim them while they shine for us below,” and a caballero pushed back his chair, leaned forward, and touched her glass with his, then went down on one knee and drank the red wine.

Eulogia threw him a little absent smile, sipped her wine, and went on talking to Ignestria in her soft monotonous voice.

“My friend—­Graciosa La Cruz—­went a few weeks ago to Monterey for a visit.  You will tell her I think of her, no?”

“I will dance with her often because she is your friend—­until I return to San Luis Obispo.”

“Will that be soon, senor?”

“I told thee that would be as soon as thou wished.  Thou wilt answer my letter—­promise me, Eulogia.”

“I will not, senor.  I intend to be wiser than other women.  At the very least, my follies shall not burn paper.  If you want an answer, you will return.”

“I will not return without that answer.  I never can see thee alone, and if I could, thy coquetry would not give me a plain answer.  I must see it on paper before I will believe.”

“Thou canst wait for the day of resurrection for thy knowledge, then!”

V

Once more Aunt Anastacia rolled her large figure through Eulogia’s doorway and handed her a letter.