changed--life seems, somehow, more real.
The thought of losing you has suddenly become terrible."

"You have been drinking Russian tea," said Concha, stitching quietly
but flashing him a glance of amusement, not wholly without malice.

"It is true," he replied. "I suppose I never really believed you would
marry Raimundo or Ignacio or any of the caballeros. They think and
talk of nothing but horse-racing, gambling, cock-fighting, love and
cigaritos. I thought of you always here, where at least I could look
at you or read with you. But one must admit that this Russian is no
ordinary man. I hate him, yet like him more than any I have ever met.
Last night I stayed to punch with him, and we talked English for an
hour. That is to say, he did; I could have listened to him till
morning. Langsdorff says that he has the greatest possible command of
his native tongue, but he speaks English well enough. I wish I could
despise him, but I do not believe I even hate him."

"Well?" demanded Concha. She kept her eyes on her work (and the
delight that rose in her breast from her voice).

"Well?"

"Why should you hate him?"

"Do you ask me that, Concha, when he makes a fence of himself about
you, and his fine eyes--practised is nearer the mark--look at no one
else?"

"But why should that cause you jealousy? He is a man of the world,
accustomed to make himself agreeable, and I am the daughter of the
Commandante."

"He is more in love with you than he knows."

"Do you think so, Weeliam?" Still her voice was innocent and even,
although the color rose above the inner commotion. "But even so, what
of it? Have not many loved me? Am I to be won by the first stranger?"

"I do not know."

The tumult in Concha turned to wrath, and she lifted flashing eyes to
his moody face. "Do you presume to say you are jealous because you
think I love him--a stranger I have known but a week--who looks upon me
as a child--who has never--never thought--" But her dignity, flying to
the rescue, assumed control. Her upper lip curled, her body stiffened
for a moment, and she went on with her stitching. "You deserve I
should rap your silly little skull with my thimble. You are no better
than Ignacio and Fernando. Such scenes as I have had with them! They
wanted to fight the Russian! How he would laugh at them! I have
threatened they shall both be sent to San Diego if there is any more
nonsense." Then curiosity overcame her. "You never