The house servants at Las Palmas were, on the whole, well trained, and Mrs. Austin’s periodic absences excited no comment; in the present instance, Dolores fixed a bath and laid out clean clothes with no more than a running accompaniment of chatter concerned with household affairs.  Dolores, indeed, was superior to the ordinary servant; she was a woman of some managerial ability, and she combined the duties of personal maid with those of housekeeper.  She was a great gossip, and possessed such a talent for gaining information that through her husband, Benito, the range boss, she was able to keep her mistress in fairly intimate touch with ranch matters.

Alaire, however, was at this moment in no mood to resume the tiresome details of management; she quickly dismissed her servitor and proceeded to revel in the luxury of a cool bath, after which she took a nap.  Later, as she leisurely dressed herself, she acknowledged that it was good to feel the physical comforts of her own house, even though her home-coming gave her no especial joy.  She made it a religious practice to dress for dinner, regardless of Ed’s presence, though often for weeks at a time she sat in solitary state, presiding over an empty table.  Nevertheless, she kept to her custom, for not only did the formality help her to retain her own self-respect, but it had its influence upon the servants.  Without companionship one needs to be ever upon guard to retain the nice refinements of gentle breeding, and any one who has exercised authority in savage countries soon learns the importance of leaving unbridged the gulf of color and of class.

But Alaire looked forward to no lonely dinner to-night, for Ed was at home.  It was with a grave preoccupation that she made herself ready to meet him.

Dolores bustled in for a second time and straightway launched herself into a tirade against Juan, the horse-boy.

“Devil take me if there was ever such a shameless fellow,” she cried, angrily.  “He delights in tormenting me, and—­Dios!—­he is lazier than a snake.  Work?  Bah!  He abhors it.  All day long he snaps his revolver and pretends to be a bandido, and when he is not risking bell’s fire in that way he is whirling his riata and jumping through it.  Useless capers!  He ropes the dog, he ropes the rose-bushes, he ropes fat Victoria, the cook, carrying a huge bowl of hot water to scald the ants’ nest.  Victoria’s stomach is boiled red altogether, and so painful that when she comes near the stove she curses in a way to chill your blood.  What does he do this morning but fling his wicked loop over a calf’s head and break off one of its little horns.  It was terrible; but Senor Austin only laughed and told him he was a fine vaquero.”

“Has Mr. Austin been here all the time?”

“Yes.”

“Has he—­drunk much?”

“Um-m.  No more than common.  He is on the gallery now with his cocktails.”

“He knows I am at home?”