t if you have always known her, you must know how old she is."

"I have not always known her, and I don't know; I suppose her to be
about twenty-seven or twenty-eight."

"She is over thirty," said Garda, with decision. "Do you think her
handsome?"

"She is considered handsome."

"But do you think her so?"

"That is rather a close question, isn't it?"

"It doesn't seem so to me; people are handsome or not handsome, it's
fact--not opinion. And what I wanted to see was whether you had any eye
for beauty, that was all. Mrs. Rutherford, for instance, is handsome,
Mrs. Carew is not. Manuel is handsome, Adolfo Torres is not."

"And Miss Thorne?"

"She hopes she is, but she isn't sure," replied the girl, laughing; "it
isn't 'sure' to be thought so by the four persons about here. And she
can't find out from the only stranger she knows, because he hasn't a
particle of expression in his face; it's most unfortunate."

"For him--yes. It's because he's so old, you know."

"How old are you?"

"I am thirty-five."

"You look younger than that," said Garda, after scanning him for a
moment.

"It's my northern temperament, that keeps me young and handsome."

"Oh, you're not handsome; but in a man it's of little consequence," she
added.

"Very little. Or in a woman either. Don't we all know that beauty fades
as the leaf?"

"The leaf fades when it has had all there was of its life, it doesn't
fade before. That is what I mean to do, have all there is of _my_ life,
I have told mamma so. I said to mamma more than a year ago, 'Mamma,
what are our pleasures? Let us see if we can't get some more;' and mamma
answered, 'Edgarda, pleasures are generally wrong.' But I don't agree
with mamma, I don't think them wrong; and I intend to take mine wherever
I can find them, in fact, I do so now."

"And do you find many?"

"Oh yes," replied Garda, confidently. "There are our oranges, which are
excellent; and Carlos Mateo, who is so amusing; and the lovely breeze we
have sometimes; and the hammock where I lie and plan out all the things
I should like to have--the softest silks, laces, nothing coarse or
common to touch me; plenty of roses in all the rooms and the garden full
of sweet-bay, so that all the air should be perfumed."

"And not books? Conversation?"

"I don't care much about books, they all appear to have been written by
old people; I suppose when I am old myself, I shall like them better. As
to conversation--yes, I like a