ssume the role
of lover. He turned to Antonia, and with an air of pride and contentment,
asked the old woman, in her own language:

"Isn't she a beautiful child?"

Sylvia was startled by his manner of speaking Spanish. Everybody along the
border spoke the language a little; but Harboro's wasn't the canteen
Spanish of most border Americans. Accent and enunciation were singularly
nice and distinct. His mustache bristled rather fiercely over one or two
of the words.

Antonia thought very highly of the "child," she admitted. She was
_bonisima_, and other superlatives.

And then Harboro's manner became rather brisk again. "Come, I want to show
you the house," he said, addressing his wife.

He had taken a great deal of pride in the planning and construction of the
house. There was a young Englishman in one of the shops--a draftsman--who
had studied architecture in a London office, and who might have been a
successful architect but for a downfall which had converted him,
overnight, into a remittance-man and a fairly competent employee of the
Mexican International. And this man and Harboro had put their heads
together and considered the local needs and difficulties, and had finally
planned a house which would withstand northers and lesser sand-storms, and
the long afternoons' blazing sun, to the best advantage. A little garden
had been planned, too. There was hydrant water in the yard. And there was
a balcony, looking to the west, over the garden.

She preceded him up-stairs.

"First I want to show you your own room," said Harboro. "What do you call
it? I mean the room in which the lady of the house sits and is
contented."

I can't imagine what there was in this description which gave Sylvia a
hint as to his meaning, but she said:

"A boudoir?"

And Harboro answered promptly: "That's it!"

The boudoir was at the front of the house, up-stairs, overlooking the
Quemado Road. It made Sylvia's eyes glisten. It contained a piano, and a
rather tiny divan in russet leather, and maple-wood furniture, and
electric fixtures which made you think of little mediaeval lanterns. But
the bride looked at these things somewhat as if she were inspecting a
picture, painted in bold strokes: as if they would become obscure if she
went too close--as if they couldn't possibly be hers to be at home among.

It did not appear that Harboro was beginning to feel the absence of a
spontaneous acceptance on the part of his wife. Perhaps he was r