“Is that possible?” Mrs. Trenour had commented, dryly. Perhaps she had her doubts on the matter. “This is different, however. Everyone goes to the _bailes_ in this country. It is the only way you can see everyone. Besides, I’ll tell him you had to accompany me. Haven’t you anything to put over that muslin frock?” Yes, there was a white shawl of her mother’s in the bottom of her little tin trunk; and she had a right pretty piece of blue moiré ribbon to tie round her hair (it was the ribbon that first caught Consuelo’s eye), in hair that at night was more silvery than gold. A woman, a blonde woman. She had heard of them, but the fairest creature she had seen up till this time was the baby of Anita, who had married the English trapper. Its curls were flaxen yellow, its eyes blue. But no woman remained this white and gold. Consuelo gazed fascinated and a disturbing jealousy arose in her heart. So this creature had come in the caravan with the tall Americano of the ruddy hair. She had traveled with him across the plains. Was she then his sweetheart? His sister, perhaps? No, not that, she knew intuitively. Don Tiburcio was asking for the valse. She rose in relief and they spun in dizzying circles, faster and faster, at length subsiding with the music for the march about the room. Luis was standing before the Americana’s chair, bowing. Would she promenade? Evidently urged to do so by the older woman, still the girl hung back. Luis retired, flushed with fury at the rebuff. Consuelo’s eyes never left the blond trader except when her back must be turned; even then she was intensely conscious of him. Did he dance? He must dance with her. Steven still stood against the far wall, looking on. Now Consuelo and Don Tiburcio were passing again before the chair of the fair-haired Americana and Don Tiburcio was looking at her, a sidelong glance. Ah, he too had noted the little blonde! As they passed on he bent to Consuelo’s ear, “You are sure, señorita, of your answer?” His voice seemed uncommonly agitated. “Quite sure, señor,” flashed Consuelo, with unexpected spirit. “Do not molest yourself to ask me again, I pray, or I may accept, and then you will not be able to promenade with the Americanita, either.” Diablo! What a little temper she had! And what _perspicaz_! Don Tiburcio stared straight ahead in his amazement and desire to disprove Consuelo’s accusation. What, jealous already of another’s beauty? He had scarcely glanced at the girl. Devil take it how women caught on! Consuelo was leaving him before the promenade had finished. Reaching her seat, she flounced down upon it. Now the American gentleman could come and get her. Consuelo spread her full skirts, adjusted her veil over the high comb, and sat wide-eyed, confident, smiling bright invitation across the floor at Steven Mercer. Now he could come and get her.