“By all means.  As soon as I get rid of that little bunch of cattle I’m going to give a barbecue and festival to the countryside in honor of my guests.  We’ll eat a half dozen fat two-year-old steers and about a thousand loaves of bread and a couple of barrels of claret and a huge mess of chilli sauce.  When I announce in the El Toro Sentinel that I’m going to give a fiesta and that everybody is welcome, all my friends and their friends and relatives will come and I’ll be spared the trouble of visiting them individually.  Don Nicolas Sandoval remarked when he collected that Loustalot judgment for me that he supposed I’d do the decent thing, now that I could afford it.  Mother Sepulvida suggested it and Anita seconded the motion.  It will probably be the last event of its kind on such a scale ever given in California, and when it is finished it will have marked my transition from an indolent ranchero to some sort of commercial go-getter.”

“I see.  Little Mike, the Hustler.”

He nodded, rose and stood before her, smiling down at her with an inscrutable little smile.  “Will you motor me in to El Toro to-morrow morning?” he pleaded.  “I must go there to arrange for cattle cars.”

“Of course.”

“Thank you, Kay.  Now, if I have your permission to withdraw, I think I shall make myself presentable for dinner.”

He hesitated a moment before withdrawing, however, meanwhile gazing down on her with a gaze so intent that the girl flushed a little.  Suddenly his hand darted out and he had her adorable little chin clasped between his brown thumb and forefinger, shaking it with little shakes of mock ferocity.  He seemed about to deliver some important announcement—­impassioned, even, but to her huge disgust he smothered the impulse, jerked his hand away as if he had scorched his fingers, and blushed guiltily.  “Oh, I’m a sky-blue idiot,” he half growled and left her abruptly.

A snort—­to a hunter it would have been vaguely reminiscent of that of an old buck deer suddenly disturbed in a thicket—­caused her to look up.  At the corner of the wall Pablo Artelan stood, staring at her with alert interest; his posture was one of a man suddenly galvanized into immobility.  Kay blushed, but instantly decided to appear nonchalant.

“Good evening, Pablo,” she greeted the majordomo.  “How do you feel after your long, hard day on the range?”

“Gracias, mees.  Myself, I feel pretty good.  When my boss hees happy—­well—­Pablo Artelan hees happy just the same.”

The girl noted his emphasis.  “That’s very nice of you, Pablo, I’m sure.  Have you any idea,” she continued with bland innocence, “why Don Miguel is so happy this evening?”