Trennahan did not see Magdalena until luncheon.  She came in late, and her manner was a shade colder and more reserved than usual.  After much excogitation, she had decided to leave the roses in her hair, but it had taken her ten minutes to summon up courage to go downstairs.

He understood perfectly, and his soul grinned.  Then he sighed.  Youth had been very sweet to him, all manifestations of femininity in a woman very dear.  There were four long windows in the dining-room, but the roof of the verandah, the thick vines springing from pillar to pillar, the lilac-trees and willows just beyond, chastened the light in the room.  Magdalena looked almost pretty, with her air of proud reserve, the roses nestling in her dark hair.  Ten years ago he might have loved her, perhaps, in spite of her complexion.

Mrs. Yorba did not notice the roses.  Her mind was blind with wrath:  the cream sauce of the chicken was curdled.  During at least half the meal she did not utter a word; and Trennahan, wondering if fate were forcing him into the permanent rôle of the garrulous American, a breed for which he had all the finely bred American’s contempt, talked of the weather, the woods, the climate, the beauty of the Californian women, with little or no assistance from Magdalena.  The moment he paused, and he was hungry, the catlike tread of the Chinese butlers was the only sound in the large house; the silence was so oppressive that he reflected with gratitude that his visit would be done with the morrow’s morn.

Finally, Mrs. Yorba left the table and stepping through one of the open casements walked up and down the verandah.  She was very fond of this little promenade between the last solid course of luncheon and the griddle-cakes and fruit.

“I am glad you wear flowers in your hair,” said Trennahan.  “Your head was made for them.  I am certain your Ysabel What’s-her-name must have worn them just so the night her ardent lover conceived the idea of robbing the Mission of its pearls for her fair sake.”

Magdalena’s face glowed with its rare smile.  “But Ysabel was so beautiful,” she said wistfully,-“the most beautiful woman in California.”

“All women are beautiful, my dear Miss Yorba-when they are young.  If girls could only be made to understand that youth is always beautiful, they would be even prettier than they are.”

Magdalena’s eyes were large and radiant for a moment.  She was disposed to believe in him implicitly.  She determined that she would think no more on the beautiful women of her race, but learn to make herself attractive in other ways.  Helena would return soon and would teach her.

“I have read in books that plain women are sometimes more fascinating than beautiful ones,” she said.  “How can that be?  Of course you must know.”

“A fascinating ugly woman is one who in the same moment sets the teeth on edge and makes a beauty look like a daub or a statue.  Her pitfall is that she is apt to be lacking in pride:  she makes too great an effort to please.  Your pride is magnificent.  I say that in strict truth and without any desire to pay you a compliment.  Had fate been so unkind as to make you an ugly woman, you would not have had a jot less; it is the finest part of you, to my way of thinking.  You are worrying now because you have less to say than these girls who have travelled and been educated abroad, and who, moreover, are of lighter make.  Don’t try to imitate them.  The knack of making conversation will come with time; and you will always be appreciated by the men who are weary past your power to understand of the women that chatter.  If I buy this place, I shall read over some of my favourite old books with you,-that is, if you will let me; and I believe that you will.”

Magdalena’s hands were clasped on the edge of the table; she was leaning forward, her soul in her eyes.  For the moment she was beautiful, and Trennahan looked his admiration and forgot her lack of complexion.  To Magdalena there had been a sudden blaze of golden light, then a rift, through which she caught a brief flash of heaven.  Her vague longings suddenly cohered.  She was to be solitary no longer.  She was to have a companion, a friend,-perhaps a confidante, a person to whom she might speak out her inmost soul.  She had never thought that she should wish to open her reserve to anyone, but in this prospect there was enchantment.

Mrs. Yorba returned to her seat and helped herself to hot cakes.

“When Miss Montgomery and Miss Brannan were leaving last night,” she said, “they asked me to stop for them this afternoon, as they wished to persuade you that the Mark Smith place was exactly what you wanted, or something to that effect.  So we shall stop for them.  The char-a-banc will be at the door at a quarter to four.”

That was her last remark, as it had been her first, and some twenty minutes later the repast came to an end.