“In that event, it is more than probable that a consideration of his desperate financial strait will preclude his indicating any lively interest in Kay.”  Parker glanced anxiously at his wife, as if seeking in her face confirmation of a disturbing suspicion.  “At least, that would be in consonance with the high sense of honor and lofty ideals with which you credit him.  However, we must remember that he has a dash of Latin blood, and my experience has been that not infrequently the Latinos high sense of honor and lofty idealism are confined to lip-service only.  I wonder if he’d be above using Kay as a gun to point at my head.”

“I’m quite certain that he would, John.  Even if he should become interested in her for her own sake, he would, of course, realize that the genuineness of his feeling would be open to suspicion by—­well, most people, who comprehend his position—­and I doubt very much if, under these circumstances, he will permit himself to become interested in her.”

“He may not be able to help himself.  Kay gets them all winging.”

“Even so, he will not so far forget his ancestral pride as to admit it, or even give the slightest intimation of it.”

“He is a prideful sort of chap.  I noticed that.  Still, he’s not a prig.”

“He has pride of race, John.  Pride of ancestry, pride of tradition, pride of an ancient, undisputed leadership in his own community.  He has been raised to know that he is not vulgar or stupid or plebeian; his character has been very carefully cultivated and developed.”

He edged his horse close to hers.

“Look here, my dear,” he queried; “what brought the tears to your eyes at luncheon to-day?”

“There was a moment, John, when the shadow of a near-break came over his face.  Kay and I both saw it.  He looked wistful and lonely and beaten, and dropped his head like a tired horse, and her heart, her very soul, went out to him.  I saw her hand go out to him, too; she touched his arm for an instant and then, realizing, she withdrew it.  And then I knew!”

“Knew what?”

“That our little daughter, who has been used to queening it over every man of her acquaintance, is going to batter her heart out against the pride of Palomar.”

“You mean—­”

“She loves him.  She doesn’t know it yet, but I do.  Oh, John, I’m old and wise.  I know!  If Miguel Farrel were of a piece with the young men she has always met, I wouldn’t worry.  But he’s so absolutely different—­so natural, so free from that atrocious habit of never being able to disassociate self from the little, graceful courtesies young men show women.  He’s wholesome, free from ego, from that intolerable air of proprietorship, of masculine superiority and cocksureness that seems so inseparable from the young men in her set.”

“I agree with you, my dear.  Many a time I have itched to grasp the jaw-bone of an ass and spoil a couple of dozen of those young pups with their story-book notions of life.”