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The senora turned a bland, unmoved face upon her son. The eyes of the newcomers followed her gaze. Ricardo held his cigarette between his fingers, and blew a cloud of smoke above his head.

“She don’ spik no Englis’,” he said, looking at them mildly.

The girl flushed to the roots of her hay-colored frizz of hair. “You’re a nice one!” she said. “Why didn’t you speak up?”

Ricardo gave her another gentle, undisturbed glance. “Ah on’stan’ a leetle Englis’; Ah c’n talk a leetle,” he said calmly.

The girl hesitated an instant, letting her desire for information struggle with her resentment. “Well, then,” she said, lowering her voice half sullenly, “my fawther here wants to ask you something. We live a mile or so down the road. We’ve come out from Ioway this summer–me and mother, that is; pappy here come in the spring, didn’t you, pappy? An’ he bought the Slater place, an’ there’s ten acres of vineyard, an’ Barden,–he’s the real ‘state agent over t’ Elsmore, you know ‘im,–he told my fawther they wuz all raisin-grapes, white muscat,–didn’t he, pappy?–an’ my fawther here paid cash down fer the place, an’ the vineyard’s comin’ into bearin’ next fall, an’ Parker Lowe,–he has a gov’ment claim on section eighteen, back of our ranch,—maybe you know ‘im,–he says they’re every one mission grapes–fer makin’ wine. He helped set ’em out, an’ he says they got the cuttin’s from your folks; but I thought he wuz sayin’ it just to plague me, so my fawther here thought he’d come an’ ask. If they are wine-grapes, that felluh Barden lied–didn’t he, pappy?”

The Mexican gazed at her pensively through the smoke of his cigarette.

“Yass, ‘m,” he said slowly and softly–“yass, ‘m; Ah gass he tell good deal lies. Ah gass he don’ tell var’ much trut’.”

“Then they are mission grapes?”

“Yass, ‘m; dey all meession grapes; dey mek var’ good wahn.”

The girl’s face flamed an angry red under her crimpled thatch of hair. She put out her hand with a swift, protecting gesture, and caught her father’s sleeve.

The little man’s cheeks were pale gray above his shaggy beard. He took off his hat, and nervously wiped the damp hair from his forehead. His daughter did not look at him. Ricardo could see the frayed plume on her jaunty turban quiver.

“My fawther here’s a temperance man, a prohibitionist: he don’t believe in wine; he hates it; he wouldn’t touch it with a ten-foot pole. That felluh Barden knowed it–didn’t he, pappy? He lied!” She spoke fiercely, catching her breath between her sentences.

The Mexican threw away the end of his cigarette, and gazed after it with pensive regret.

“Some folks don’ lak wahn,” he said amiably. “Ah lak it var’ well mahse’f. Ah gass he al’s tell var’ big lies, Mist’ Barrd’n.”

The girl turned away, still grasping her father’s arm. Then she came back, with a sudden and somewhat bewildering accession of civility. “Addyoce,” she said, bowing loftily toward the senora. The plume in her hat had turned in the afternoon breeze, and curved forward, giving her a slightly martial aspect.

“Addyoce, Mr. Gonsallies. We’re much obliged,–ain’t we, pappy? Addyoce.”

Ricardo touched his sombrero. “Good-evenin’, mees,” he said in his soft, leisurely voice; “good-evenin’, senor.”

When the last ruffle of Miss Starkweather’s green “polonay” had disappeared around the corner of the adobe house, the senora drifted slowly across the dooryard in her voluminous pink drapery, and sat down beside her son. There was a thin stratum of curiosity away down in her Latin soul. What had Ricardo done to make the senorita so very angry? She was angry, was she not?

Oh, yes, she was very angry, but Ricardo had done nothing. Senor Barden had sold her father ten acres of wine-grapes, and the old man did not like wine; he liked raisins. Santa Maria! Did he mean to eat ten acres of raisins? He need not drink his wine; he could sell it. But the senorita was very angry; she would probably kill Senor Barden. She had said she would kill him with a very long pole–ten feet. Ricardo would not care much if she did. Senor Barden had called him a greaser. But as for a man who did not like wine–caramba!