“Oh, I’ve been promoted since I was out here last.  Anyhow, I guess my dad is pretty nearly as good as anybody in Panama.”

“He is, then, of blue blood?”

“No!  Red.”

“Oh, but a gentleman!”

“He is now.  He used to be a brakeman.”

“You appear to be-proud of such a thing!  How strange!  My father’s blood runs back to the conquistadors; even in the earliest books one finds Garavels.  They were conquerors, they ruled this country and all these people.”

“That’s something to be proud of, but it isn’t everything.  High-bred horses run well, but they can’t pull.  It’s the old farm nag that delivers the merchandise.  But I’ll tackle your father, and I’ll promise to vote for him.”

“You are very fonny.”  She gazed at him seriously, one tiny foot curled under her, her chin nestling into her palm.

“Do you love me?”

“Not one single speck.  I merely like you to make love at me and cause my heart to jomp!  But that is not fair to you, is it?-since you can have no hope.”

The little hypocrite continued to voice words of warning and denial, though her eyes invited him, and for a long time they continued this delightful play of pleading and evasion.  But at last Chiquita jumped up with a great appearance of alarm.

“Heavens! the time,” she cried.  “I have stayed too long by much.  Stephanie will miss me.”

He rose and stretched out his hand as if to hold her.

“Shall I come again to-morrow?”

She grew suddenly earnest.

“No, no, senor.  That is something you should not ask.  If ever we are to meet again, it must be with my father’s consent.  Please!  Do not urge, for truly I would have to refuse.”  She let her palm rest in his an instant, and her cheek went scarlet as he pressed it to his lips.  Then she said:  “Go, Mr. Brazen One.  How greatly it surprised me to find you here I cannot say.  It gave me such a start!  And, Senor Antonio—­my father may be found any day at his bank.”  Before he could detain her she was gone, flitting up the path with just one flashing smile of mischief over her shoulder.

Anthony went home with his head in the clouds.  All his doubts were now at rest; for while Chiquita had stubbornly denied him all encouragement, he felt sure that her heart had answered.  It was in the highest spirits, therefore, that he opened a letter he found awaiting him, and read as follows: 

Dear Kirk,—­I hope you are heartily sick of yourself and ready to do something decent for a change.  Knowing your aristocratic habits as I do, I realize you must owe a lot of money by this time, and your new friends must be getting tired of you.  I have been expecting you to draw on me daily, and am taking this occasion to warn you in your own expensively acquired college English that “There is nothing doing”—­except upon one condition.  If you will agree to behave