“I told him.”

Alaire went on dressing.  After a little she asked:  “Has Benito finished branding the calves in the south pasture?”

“He finished yesterday and sent the remuda to the Six Mile.  Jose Sanchez will have completed the rodeo by this afternoon.  Benito rode in last night to see you.”

“By the way, you know Jose’s cousin, Panfilo?”

“Si.”

“Why did he leave Las Palmas?”

Dolores hesitated so long that her mistress turned upon her with a look of sharp inquiry.

“He went to La Feria, senora.”  Then, in a lowered tone:  “Mr. Austin ordered it.  Suddenly, without warning, he sent him away, though Panfilo did not wish to go, Benito told me all about it.”

“Why was he transferred?  Come!  What ails your tongue, Dolores?”

“Well, I keep my eyes open and my ears, too.  I am no fool—­” Dolores paused doubtfully.

“Yes, yes!”

Dolores drew closer.  “Rosa Morales—­you know the girl?  Her father works the big pump-engine at the river.  Well, he is not above anything, that man; not above selling his own flesh and blood, and the girl is no better.  She thinks about nothing except men, and she attends all the bailes for miles around, on both sides of the river.  Panfilo loved her; he was mad about her.  That’s why he came here to work.”

“They were engaged, were they not?”

“Truly.  And Panfilo was jealous of any man who looked at Rosa.  Now you can understand why—­he was sent away.”  Dolores’s sharp eyes narrowed meaningly.  “Senor Ed has been riding toward the river every day, lately.  Panfilo was furious, so—­”

“I see!  That is all I care to hear.”  Alone, Alaire stood motionless for some time, her face fixed, her eyes unseeing; but later, when she met her husband in the dining-room, her greeting was no less civil than usual.

Ed acknowledged his wife’s entrance with a careless nod, but did not trouble to remove his hands from his pockets.  As he seated himself heavily at the table and with unsteady fingers shook the folds from his napkin, he said: 

“You stayed longer than you intended.  Um-m—­you were gone three days, weren’t you?”

“Four days,” Alaire told him, realizing with a little inward start how very far apart she and Ed had drifted.  She looked at him curiously for an instant, wondering if he really could be her husband, or—­if he were not some peculiarly disagreeable stranger.

Ed had been a handsome boy, but maturity had vitiated his good looks.  He was growing fat from drink and soft from idleness; his face was too full, his eyes too sluggish; there was an unhealthy redness in his cheeks.  In contrast to his wife’s semi-formal dress, he was unkempt—­unshaven and soiled.  He wore spurred boots and a soft shirt; his nails were grimy.  When in the city he contrived to garb himself immaculately; he was in fact something of a dandy; but at home he was a sloven, and openly reveled in a freedom of speech and a coarseness of manner that were sad trials to Alaire.  His preparations for dinner this evening had been characteristically simple; he had drunk three dry cocktails and flung his sombrero into a corner.