“After you told me who you were, I realized you would sleep at the ranch to-night, so I kept your things in the car.  They are in your old room now.”

“Thank you for an additional act of kindness and thoughtfulness.”  He adjusted his overseas cap, snugged his blouse down over his hips, flipped from it the wet sand deposited there by the paws of the hound-pack, and said, “Let’s go.”

Where the avenue debouched into the ranch-yard, Pablo and Carolina awaited them.  The old majordomo was wrapped in aboriginal dignity.  His Indian blood bade him greet Don Mike as casually as if the latter had merely been sojourning in El Toro the past two years, but the faint strain of Spanish in him dictated a different course as Don Mike stepped briskly up to him with outstretched hand and greeted him affectionately in Spanish.  Off came the weather-stained old sombrero, flung to the ground beside him, as Pablo dropped on his knees, seized his master’s hand, and bowed his head over it.

“Don Miguel,” he said, “my life is yours.”

“I know it, you blessed old scalawag!” Don Mike replied in English, and ruffled the grizzled old head before passing on to the expectant Carolina, who folded him tightly in her arms and wept soundlessly when he kissed her leathery cheek.  While he was murmuring words of comfort to her, Pablo got up on his feet and recovered his hat.

“You see,” he said to Kay, in a confidential tone, “Don Miguel Jose Maria Federico Noriaga Farrel loves us.  Never no woman those boy kees since hees mother die twenty year before.  So Carolina have the great honor like me.  Yes!”

“Oh, but you haven’t seen him kiss his sweetheart,” Kay bantered the old man—­and then blushed, in the guilty knowledge that her badinage had really been inspired by a sudden desire to learn whether Don Mike had a sweetheart or not.  Pablo promptly and profanely disillusioned her.

“Those boy, he don’ have some sweethearts, mees lady.  He’s pretty parteecular.”  He paused a moment and looked her in the face meaningly.  “Those girls in thees country—­pah!  Hee’s pretty parteecular, those boy.”

His childish arrogance and consuming pride in his master stirred the girl’s sense of humor.

“I think your Don Mike is too particular,” she whispered.  “Personally, I wouldn’t marry him on a bet.”

His slightly bloodshot eyes flickered with rage.  “You never get a chance,” he assured her.  “Those boy is of the gente.  An’ we don’ call heem ‘Don Mike’ now.  Before, yes; but now he is ‘Don Miguel,’ like hees father.  Same, too, like hees gran’father.”

Throughout this colloquy, Carolina had been busy exculpating herself from possible blame due to her failure to have prepared for the prodigal the sort of food she knew he preferred.

Farrel had quite a task pacifying her.  At length he succeeded in gently dismissing both servants, and followed Kay toward the patio.