riously in love was too absurd; his friends were
too well acquainted with the flirtatious side of his nature ever to
credit such a possibility. And yet, when Anita, his Indian housekeeper
and wife of his overseer and general factotum, Concho, saw the amazing
quantities of flowers, still wet with the morning's dew, that were daily
transported to the _Posada_, her suspicions became aroused. She began to
question Concho concerning them, and when he finally admitted that a
woman was the recipient of them, she raised her eyebrows with the
knowing look of a woman who has guessed the truth.

"I thought so," she answered quietly, a peculiar smile illumining her
dark countenance as she seated herself in the doorway of the refectory
which opened on the _patio_, and disposed herself comfortably,
preparatory to the interesting bit of gossip which she intended to screw
out of her husband.

She was of medium height, of the spare, slender type, and must have been
attractive in her youth, for even now, in spite of middle age, she was
comely to look upon. She wore a red rose in her black hair, while a
partially drooping eyelid gave a piquant, coquettish expression to her
face.

"Holy Virgin! but this is interesting!" she went on after a pause. "The
Senor in love, really in love!" and she laughed quietly to herself,
while she took a pinch of tobacco and a leaf of brown paper from the
pocket of her apron and began rolling a cigarette.

"Bah!" said Concho, accompanying the exclamation with a shrug of the
shoulders. "You women are always imagining things which do not exist.
Have we not often seen the Senor like this before? Has he not completely
spoiled the Senoritas of the town with his flowers? He's bored. He's
trying to amuse himself, that's all."

"And didst thou not say," continued Anita, without heeding his remarks,
regarding him out of the corners of her eyes while lighting her
cigarette, "that she is not quite so tall as the other one, but equally
beautiful in her way; that she is pink and white at one and the same
moment, just like a half-blown rose, and soft and satiny as the down on
a swan's neck?"

"It is all true, Anita _mia_, she is even that and more!" responded
Concho with warmth. "She is worth a journey to the _Posada_ to see, but
then, what is that--what are a few wisps of flowers?"

"Wisps? Armfuls, thou meanest, Concho! When did the Senor ever lavish so
many flowers upon one woman before? He told me they were for