The next day there were races, and in the evening another dance, on the day following a _rodeo_ and _merienda_. "How long do they keep this thing up without breaking down?" asked Thorpe, on the evening of the sixth day, and after another race where the women had screamed themselves hoarse, and one man had stabbed another. All were now fraternal and enthusiastic in a _cascarone_ frolic. "They are made of elastic, as far as pleasure is concerned," replied Estenega. "If they had to work six hours out of twenty-four, they would be haggard, and weak in the knees." Thorpe entered the sala. The furniture, with the exception of the tables, had been removed; and men and women, with the abandon of children, were breaking eggshells, filled with cologne, tinsel, and flour, on the back of each other's heads. Black hair was flowing to the floor; white teeth were set behind arch tense lips; black eyes were snapping; nostrils were dilating. Even Doña Eustaquia and Chonita had joined in the romp. Prudencia, alone, ever mindful of her dignity, stood in a corner, the back of her head protected by the wall. She raised her fan to Thorpe, and he made his way to her under a shower of _cascarones_. The cologne ran down his neck, and made a paste of flour and tinsel on his head. "Ay, señor!" exclaimed the châtelaine of Casa Grande, as he bowed before her. "No is unbecome at all. How you like the way we make the fun?" Thorpe assured her that life was unmitigated amusement for the first time. "No? You no laughing at us, señor?" "It has been my good fortune to laugh with you for six days." "Si: I theenk you like. I watching you." Prudencia gave her head a coquettish toss. She was still a very pretty woman, despite her flesh. "Oh, now you flatter me awfully. Why should you watch your most insignificant guest?" "You no are the more--how you call him?--eens--_bueno! no importa_. You are the more honour guest I have. Si you like California, Señor Torp, why you no living here?" "Oh--I--" He had heard that question before, in different circumstances. He was standing with his back to the wall. The brilliant picture before him became the mise-en-scène of an opera, the babble of voices its chorus. To his reversed vision, it crowded backward and cohered. And upon its shifting front, upon the wall of light and laughter and beauty, was projected the tragic figure of Nina Randolph. Thorpe felt that his dark face was visibly paling. A small angry fist seemed to strike his heart, and all his being ached with sudden pity and longing. A soft hand brushed his. He turned with a start and looked down into the coquettish eyes of his hostess. He noted mechanically that she had a very determined mouth, and that her colour was higher than usual. "I beg pardon?" he stammered. "Why you no stay here?" whispered Prudencia. "Well, I may, you know; my plans are very unsettled." "You ever been marry, señor?" "No, señora."