Her eyes swept his face indifferently, but something in his intense regard compelled her attention, and although she appeared to scorn conversation, she smiled once or twice; and when she smiled her face was dazzling.

“That was very wonderful, that dance, senorita; but does it not tire you?”

“No.”

“You are glad to give such great pleasure, I suppose?”

“Si—­”

“You are so used to compliments—­I know how the caballeros go on—­you won’t mind my saying it was the most beautiful thing I ever saw—­and I have been about the world a bit.”

“Si?”

“I wish I could dance, if only to dance with you.”

“You no dance?” Her tone expressed polite scorn, although her voice was scarcely audible.

“Would—­would—­you talk out a dance with me?”

“Oh no.”  She looked as astonished as if John had asked her to shut herself up alone in her room for the rest of the evening, and she swayed her back slowly upon him and lifted her hand to the shoulder of Enrique.  In another moment she was gliding down the room in his arm, and John noted that the color in her cheek was deeper.

“It is impossible that she can care for that doll,” he thought; “impossible.”

But in the days that followed he realized that the race was to be a hot one.  He was included in all the festivities, and they went to meriendas among the cotton-woods by the river and in the hills, danced every night, were entertained by the priests at the Mission, and had bull-fights, horse-races, and many games of skill.  Upon one occasion John was the happy host of a moonlight dance among his olive-trees.

Enrique’s attentions to his beautiful guest were persistent and unmistakable, and, moreover, he serenaded her nightly.  John, riding about the ranch late, too restless to sleep, heard those dulcet tones raining compliments and vows upon Delfina’s casement, and swore so furiously that he terrified the night birds.

But he, too, managed to keep close to Delfina, in spite of an occasional scowl from Enrique, who, however, held all Americans in too lofty a contempt to fear one.  John had several little talks apart with her, and it was not long before he discovered that nature had done little for the interior of that beautiful shell.  She had read nothing, and thought almost as little.  What intelligence she had was occupied with her regalities, and although sweet in spite of her hauteur, and unselfish notwithstanding her good-fortune, as a companion she would mean little to any man.  John, however, was in the throes of his first passion, and his nature was ardent and thorough.  Had she been a fool, simpering instead of dignified, he would not have cared.  She was beautiful and magnetic, and she embodied an ideal.  The ideal, however, or rather the ambition that was its other half, played no part in his mind as his love deepened.  He wanted the woman, and had he suddenly discovered that she was a changeling born among the people, his love and his determination to marry her would have abated not a tittle.