Thatcher took the seat indicated, contritely, humbly, submissively.  Carmen’s little heart was touched.  But she still went on over the back of the chair.

“Don Royal,” she said, emphasizing each word at him with her fan, “before I saw you,—­ever knew of you,—­I was a child.  Yes, I was but a child!  I was a bold, bad child;—­and I was what you call a—­a—­’forgaire’!”

“A what?” asked Thatcher, hesitating between a smile and a sigh.

“A forgaire!” continued Carmen demurely.  “I did of myself write the names of ozzer peoples;” when Carmen was excited she lost the control of the English tongue; “I did write just to please myself;—­it was my onkle that did make of it money;—­you understand, eh?  Shall you not speak?  Must I again hit you?”

“Go on,” said Thatcher laughing.

“I did find out, when I came to you at the mine, that I had forged against you the name of Micheltorena.  I to the lawyer went, and found that it was so—­of a verity—­so! so! all the time.  Look at me not now, Don Royal;—­it is a ‘forgaire’ you stare at.”

“Carmen!”

“Hoosh!  Shall I have to hit you again?  I did overlook all the papers.  I found the application:  it was written by me.  There.”

She tossed over the back of her chair an envelope to Thatcher.  He opened it.

“I see,” he said gently, “you repossessed yourself of it!”

“What is that—­’r-r-r-e—­possess’?”

“Why!”—­Thatcher hesitated—­“you got possession of this paper,—­this innocent forgery,—­again.”

“Oh!  You think me a thief as well as a ‘forgaire.’  Go away!  Get up.  Get out.”

“My dear girl—­”

“Look at the paper!  Will you?  Oh, you silly!”

Thatcher looked at the paper.  In paper, handwriting, age, and stamp it was identical with the formal, clerical application of Garcia for the grant.  The indorsement of Micheltorena was unquestionably genuine.  But the application was made for Royal Thatcher.  And his own signature was imitated to the life.

“I had but one letter of yours wiz your name,” said Carmen apologetically; “and it was the best poor me could do.”

“Why, you blessed little goose and angel,” said Thatcher, with the bold, mixed metaphor of amatory genius, “don’t you see—­”

“Ah, you don’t like it,—­it is not good?”

“My darling!”

“Hoosh!  There is also an ‘old cat’ up stairs.  And now I have here a character.  Will you sit down?  Is it of a necessity that up and down you should walk and awaken the whole house?  There!”—­she had given him a vicious dab with her fan as he passed.  He sat down.

“And you have not seen me nor written to me for a year?”

“Carmen!”

“Sit down, you bold, bad boy.  Don’t you see it is of business that you and I talk down here; and it is of business that ozzer people up stairs are thinking.  Eh?”