Nevertheless she painted a sketch of Thatcher,—­which now adorns the Company’s office in San Francisco,—­in which the property is laid out in pleasing geometrical lines, and the rosy promise of the future instinct in every touch of the brush.  Then, having earned her “wage,” as she believed, she became somewhat cold and shy to Thatcher.  Whereat that gentleman redoubled his attentions, seeing only in her presence a certain meprise, which concerned her more than himself.  The niece of his enemy meant nothing more to him than an interesting girl,—­to be protected always,—­to be feared, never.  But even suspicion may be insidiously placed in noble minds.

Mistress Plodgitt, thus early estopped of matchmaking, of course put the blame on her own sex, and went over to the stronger side—­the man’s.

“It’s a great pity gals should be so curious,” she said, sotto voce, to Thatcher, when Carmen was in one of her sullen moods.  “Yet I s’pose it’s in her blood.  Them Spaniards is always revengeful,—­like the Eyetalians.”

Thatcher honestly looked his surprise.

“Why, don’t you see, she’s thinking how all these lands might have been her uncle’s but for you.  And instead of trying to be sweet and—­” here she stopped to cough.

“Good God!” said Thatcher in great concern, “I never thought of that.”  He stopped for a moment, and then added with decision, “I can’t believe it; it isn’t like her.”

Mrs. P. was piqued.  She walked away, delivering, however, this Parthian arrow:  “Well, I hope ’taint nothing worse.”

Thatcher chuckled, then felt uneasy.  When he next met Carmen, she found his grey eyes fixed on hers with a curious, half-inquisitorial look she had never noticed before.  This only added fuel to the fire.  Forgetting their relations of host and guest, she was absolutely rude.  Thatcher was quiet but watchful; got the Plodgitt to bed early, and, under cover of showing a moonlight view of the “Lost Chance Mill,” decoyed Carmen out of ear-shot, as far as the dismantled furnace.

“What is the matter, Miss De Haro; have I offended you?”

Miss Carmen was not aware that anything was the matter.  If Don Royal preferred old friends, whose loyalty of course he knew, and who were above speaking ill against a gentleman in his adversity—­(oh, Carmen! fie!) if he preferred their company to later friends—­why—­(the masculine reader will observe this tremendous climax and tremble)—­why she didn’t know why he should blame her.

They turned and faced each other.  The conditions for a perfect misunderstanding could not have been better arranged between two people.  Thatcher was a masculine reasoner, Carmen a feminine feeler,—­if I may be pardoned the expression.  Thatcher wanted to get at certain facts, and argue therefrom.  Carmen wanted to get at certain feelings, and then fit the facts to them.