On this late and golden afternoon of midsummer she sat on a bench in the garden which was Doña Gertrudis’ pride, and smoldered while Manuel gathered little roses for her. Against the adobe wall stood a sentry of hollyhocks, and in a wide bed each side the path rioted zinnia, in all the extravagant colors with which God has pigmented a richly mineral soil. Geranium and bougainvillea rioted against the “Madonna” blue of the doorway, and honeysuckle vied with Mexican pinks--“clavelitas”--that most winsome, exquisite, and spicy fragrance. Consuelo herself was dressed for a garden. Don Tiburcio’s bales had yielded this yellow pineapple cloth from the West Indies, and China had sent the lemon-colored shawl, embroidered in crimson and soft jade. An amber necklace circled her throat, and tremulous pendant amber swung from golden filigree at the lobes of her pretty ears. She seemed like imprisoned sunlight and Don Tiburcio’s heart would have been less than human had it not quickened as he stepped through the blue gate and came toward her, bowing with deep courtliness. Consuelo has learned within a few weeks to restrain her impatience. The talk is polite, “And your grandmother? I trust she also slept well?” Don Tiburcio concludes his inquiries after the health of the family. At this point Doña Gertrudis must call Manuel within the house and Consuelo and Don Tiburcio are left alone. Consuelo parries for a desperate hour the question in Don Tiburcio’s eyes, with animated talk of Mexico and the far lands of which Don Tiburcio has knowledge. Of the carven stone balconies of the City of Mexico, the music, the brilliant life of the capital. “In Chihuahua, too, they promenade of a fair evening, señor?” “Ah yes, señorita. The plaza is most lively. With all the señoritas and matrons promenading in one direction, and the gallants in the opposite direction, many a _mirada_ is thrown from one eye to another in passing.” “Ah, that is like Spain, is it not?” “It is. But your country here is more like Spain. The mountains of Spain. When I was a lad I accompanied my grandfather there on a visit to cousins who lived in the mountains, in towns like this.” He swept his hand toward the pine-covered foothills of the Sangre de Cristo. “But tell me, señorita”--the proud hidalgo’s face became suffused as he leaned above Consuelo, sitting so stiffly upright on her bench under the clematis vine--“when am I to have an answer to the question I asked so many weeks ago?” He stood before her, very fine, a silk scarf thrown over his arm, his silver-buttoned breeches flaring open elegantly from the knee. Consuelo swayed against the vines, against a tumult of emotions. Why struggle longer? Her lashes drooped; she retreated, yielding.