“Be serious, soldier, or I shall not cut your meat for you at dinner.”

“Excuse me.  I forgot I was addressing a hot-cake queen.  But please do not threaten me, because I’m out of the army just twenty-four hours, and I’m independent and I may resent it.  I can order spoon-victuals, you know.”

“You aren’t really Spanish?”

“Not really.  Mostly.  I’d fight a wild bull this minute for a single red-chilli pepper.  I eat them raw.”

“And you’re going home to your ranch now?”

“Si.  And I’ll not take advantage of any stop-over privileges on the way, either.  Remember the fellow in the song who kept on proclaiming that he had to go back—­that he must go back—­that he would go back—­to that dear old Chicago town?  Well, that poor exile had only just commenced to think that he ought to begin feeling the urge to go home.  And when you consider that the unfortunate man hailed from Chicago, while I—­” He blew a kiss out the window and hummed: 

  “I love you, California. 
  You’re the greatest state of all—­”

“Oh dear!  You native sons are all alike.  Congenital advertisers, every one.”

“Well, isn’t it beautiful?  Isn’t it wonderful?” He was serious now.

“One-half of your state is worthless mountain country—­”

“He-country—­and beautiful!” he interrupted.

“The other half is desert.”

“Ever see the Mojave in the late afternoon from the top of the Tejon Pass?” he challenged.  “The wild, barbaric beauty of it?  And with water it would be a garden-spot.”

“Of course your valleys are wonderful.”

“Gracias, senorita.”

“But the bare brown hills in summer-time—­and the ghost-rivers of the South!  I do not think they are beautiful.”

“They grow on one,” he assured her earnestly.  “You wait and see.  I wish you could ride over the hills back of Sespe with me this afternoon, and see the San Gregorio valley in her new spring gown.  Ah, how my heart yearns for the San Gregorio!”

To her amazement, she detected a mistiness in his eyes, and her generous heart warmed to him.

“How profoundly happy you are!” she commented.

“‘Happy’?  I should tell a man!  I’m as happy as a cock valley-quail with a large family and no coyotes in sight.  Wow!  This steak is good.”

“Not very, I think.  It’s tough.”

“I have good teeth.”

She permitted him to eat in silence for several minutes, and when he had disposed of the steak, she asked,

“You live in the San Gregorio valley?”

He nodded.

“We have a ranch there also,” she volunteered.  “Father acquired it recently.”

“From whom did he acquire it?”

“I do not know the man’s name, but the ranch is one of those old Mexican grants.  It has a Spanish name.  I’ll try to remember it.”  She knitted her delicate brows.  “It’s Pal-something or other.”