thing could be simpler than his program:
abuse, promise. Nothing simpler than his ambition: all for himself, and
the devil take the hindmost. I have yet to hear him utter a sentiment
that betrays any love of his country or desire to serve her, any real
public spirit. Those are the sentiments I am trying to cultivate for
this accidental land of my birth, for without them ambition is
inexcusable and endeavor a hollow sham."

"And can't you?" Isabel left her chair and stood by the mantel-piece. It
was the first time he had spoken of himself with any approach to
confidence since the day of his arrival. "Sometimes I repent the share I
had in your coming to America--not that I flatter myself I had much to
do with it--" she added, hastily. "But my being there may have turned
the scale. You might have gone off to rule a South American Republic--"

"I should have done nothing so asinine, and you had everything to do
with my coming here. Not that I hold you responsible. You gave a hint,
and I took it."

"And you don't regret it?"

"Why waste time in regret? I can go back any moment. Not that I have the
least intention of doing anything of the sort."

He was pleasantly tired in mind and body, and the warm homelike room
caressed his senses. He settled himself more deeply in Hiram Otis's old
chair and looked up at Isabel. She had laid aside the white shawl, but
wore a red Indian scarf over her black gown. The gown was cut out in a
square at the neck; she always dressed for her lonely supper, and she
had put a red rose in her hair, in the fashion of her California
grandmothers. With her face turned from the light, her eyes with their
large pupils looked black.

"I shall stay in California, like or no like," continued Gwynne. "But I
did not walk five miles to talk politics with a woman after a day of law
and the citizens of Rosewater. Where did you get that curious
old-fashioned scarf?"

"I found it in a trunk of my mother's. Doubtless it belonged to her
mother. I also found this." She indicated a fine gold chain and heart of
garnets that lay on her white neck. The humor in his eyes had quickened
into admiration; he reflected that the various streams in her
composition might not be so completely blended as would appear upon that
normally placid surface. The feeling of uneasiness which he had
peremptorily dismissed stole over him once more. She looked wholly
Spanish, and put out the light of every brunette he knew. Dolly Boutts