“You have a long time ahead of you yet, haven’t you, Florence, before you have to answer a question like that?” asked Virginia amusedly.

“Because I am so young?” cried Florrie.  “Oh, I don’t know; girls marry young here.  Now there is Tita . . . she is our cook’s sister . . . she has two babies already and she is only four months older than I am.  And . . .  Look, Virgie; there is the most terrible creature in the world.  It is Kid Rickard; he killed the Las Palmas man, you know.  I am not going even to look at him; I hate him worse that Caleb Patten . . . and that’s like saying I hate strychnine worse than arsenic, isn’t it?  But who in the name of all that is wonderful is the man with him?  Isn’t he the handsome thing?  I never saw him before.  He is from the outside, Virgie; you can tell by the fashionable cut of his clothes and by the way he walks and . . .  Isn’t he distinguished!”

“It is Elmer!” exclaimed Virginia, staring at the two figures which were slowly approaching from the southern end of the street.  “When did he get here?  I didn’t expect him. . . .”

Then she chose to forget all save the essential fact that her “baby brother” was here and ran out to the sidewalk, calling to him.

“Hello, Sis,” returned Elmer nonchalantly.  He was a thin, anaemic-looking young fellow a couple of years younger than Virginia who affected a swagger and gloves and who had a cough which was insistent, but which he strove to disguise.  And yet Florrie’s hyperbole had not been entirely without warrant.  He had something of Virginia’s fine profile, a look of her in his eyes, the stamp of good blood upon him.  He suffered his sister to kiss him, meantime turning his eyes with a faint sign of interest to the fair girl on the veranda.  Florrie smiled.

“Sis,” said Elmer, “this is Mr. Rickard.  Mr. Rickard, shake hands with my sister, Miss Page.”

A feeling of pure loathing swept over the girl as she turned to look into Kid Rickard’s sullen eyes and degenerate, cruel face.  But, since the Kid was a couple of paces removed and was slow about coming forward, not so much as raising his hand to his wide hat, she nodded at him and managed to say a quiet, non-committal, “How do you do?” Then she slipped her arm through Elmer’s.

“Come, Elmer,” she said hastily.  “I want you to know Miss Florence Engle; she is a sort of cousin of ours.”

“Sure,” said Elmer off-handedly.  “Come on, Rickard.”

But the Kid, standing upon no ceremony, had drawn his hat a trifle lower over his eyes and turned his shoulder upon them, continuing along the street in his slouching walk.  Elmer, summoning youth’s supreme weapon of an affected boredom, yawned, stifled his little cough and went with Virginia to meet Florence.

Florence giggled over the introduction, then grew abruptly as grave as a matron of seventy and tactlessly observed that Mr. Page had a very bad cold; how could one have a cold in weather like this?  Whereupon Mr. Page glared at her belligerently, noted her little row of curls, revised his first opinion of her, set her down not only as a cousin, but as a crazy kid besides, and removed half a dozen steps to a chair.