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Her whole attitude toward Manzanita might have softened sometimes, if long years of custom had not made the little things of life vitally important to her. A misused or mispronounced word was like a blow to her; inner forces over which she had no control forced her to discuss it and correct it. She had a quick, horrified pity for Manzanita’s ignorance on matters which should be part of a lady’s instinctive knowledge. She winced at the girl’s cheerful acknowledgement of that ignorance. No woman in Mrs. Phelps’s own circle at home ever for one instant admitted ignorance of any important point of any sort; what she did not know she could superbly imply was not worth knowing. Even though she might be secretly enjoying the universal, warm hospitality of the rancho, Mrs. Phelps never lost sight of the fact that Manzanita was not the wife for Austin, and that the marriage would be the ruin of his life. She told herself that her opposition was for Manzanita’s happiness as well as for his, and plotted without ceasing against their plans.

“I’ve had a really remarkable letter from Uncle William, dear!” she said, one afternoon, when by some rare chance she was alone with her son.

“Good for you!” said Austin, absently, clicking the cock of the gun he was cleaning. “Give the old boy my love when you write.”

“He sends you a message, dear. He wants to know–but you’re not listening,” Mrs. Phelps paused. Austin looked up.

“Oh, I’m listening. I hear every word.”

“You seem so far from me these days, Austin,” said his mother, plaintively. “But–” she brightened, “I hope dear Uncle William’s plan will change all that. He wants you to come home, dear. He offers you the junior partnership, Austin.” She brought it out very quietly.

“Offers me the–WHAT?”

“The junior partnership,–yes, dear. Think of it, at your age, Austin! What would your dear father have said! How proud he would have been! Yes. Stafford has gone into law, you know, and Keith Curtis will live abroad when Isabel inherits. So you see!”

“Mighty kind of Uncle William,” mused Austin, “but of course there’s nothing in it for me!” He avoided her gaze, and went on cleaning his gun. “I’m fixed here, you know. This suits me.”

“I hope you are not serious, my son.” Austin knew that voice. He braced himself for unpleasantness.

“Manzanita,” he said simply. There was a throbbing silence.

“You disappoint one of my lifelong hopes for my only son, Austin,” his mother said very quietly.

“I know it, mother. I’m sorry.”

“For the first time, Austin, I wish I had another son. I am going to beg you–to beg you to believe that I can see your happiness clearer than you can just now!” Mrs. Phelps’s voice was calm, but she was trembling with feeling.

“Don’t put it that way, mater. Anyway, I never liked office work much, you know.”

“Austin, don’t think your old mammy is trying to manage you,” Mrs. Phelps was suddenly mild and affectionate. “But THINK, dear. Taylor says the salary is not less than fifteen thousand. You could have a lovely home, near me. Think of the opera, of having a really formal dinner again, of going to Cousin Robert Stokes’s for Christmas, and yachting with Taylor and Gerry.”

Austin was still now, evidently he WAS thinking.

“My idea,” his mother went on reasonably, “would be to have you come on with me now, at once. See Uncle William,–we mustn’t keep his kindness waiting, must we?–get used to the new work, make sure of yourself. Then come back for Manzanita, or have her come on–” She paused, her eyes a question.

“I’d hate to leave Yerba Buena–” Austin visibly hesitated.

“But, Austin, you must sooner or later.” Mrs. Phelps was framing a triumphant letter to Cornelia in her mind.

But just then Manzanita came running around the corner of the house, and seeing them, took the porch steps in two bounds, and came to lean on Austin’s shoulder.