"Gracias, Senor."
They walked slowly back to the house, Thatcher with a masculine sense
of being unreasonably afflicted, Carmen with a woman's instinct of being
hopelessly crushed. No word was spoken until they reached the door. Then
Carmen suddenly, in her old, impulsive way, and in a childlike treble,
sang out merrily, "Good night, O Don Royal, and pleasant dreams. Hasta
manana."
Thatcher stood dumb and astounded at this capricious girl. She saw his
mystification instantly. "It is for the old Cat!" she whispered, jerking
her thumb over her shoulder in the direction of the sleeping Mrs. P.
"Good night,--go!"
He went to give orders for a peon to attend the ladies and their
equipage the next day. He awoke to find Miss De Haro gone, with her
escort, towards Monterey. And without the Plodgitt.
He could not conceal his surprise from the latter lady. She, left
alone,--a not altogether unavailable victim to the wiles of our
sex,--was embarrassed. But not so much that she could not say to
Thatcher: "I told you so,--gone to her uncle.
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