During dinner conversation was loud and animated. Blanche and Dominga, who were seated opposite to one another, leant their elbows on the table, and screamed across the board in their thin ear-piercing trebles. Dominga volubly related the particulars of a recent social outrage on the part of Mrs. Watkin, whilst Blanche, whose feelings were chiefly on the surface, gave a highly coloured description of the death of a kid and the illness of a bosom friend. "I went to see Lucia Mendoza this morning. She looked so, so sick. Well, I declare I was so struck, I fell down on her bed and I cried, and I cried. If anything should happen to thatt girl, I shall _die_; I know I shall." "What nonsense you talk, child!" protested her grandmother. "Such foolish grief might have frightened the poor creature to death." "And," broke in Nicky, "though you and Lucia Mendoza are such grand friends now, it is not a month since you came out here very mad, and talking of going to law, because she had called you bad names." "If Lucia were to take curdled milk and coriander seed she would soon get arl-right," resumed Mrs. Lopez, "but she should begin it on a Wednesday, it is a lucky day. Mind you tell her," and she looked over at Blanche, and nodded her head impressively. "Isn't Nani a funny old woman?" said Blanche, suddenly addressing herself to Verona. "Did you ever see anyone like her in England?" "Now, you don't talk like thatt, Mistress Blanche Jones," interposed the old lady good-humouredly. "Anyhow, I know more of drugs, and cures, and charms, than any old woman she has ever seen. Do you tell us some news!" Thus invited, Blanche readily poured out all the latest intelligence respecting the forthcoming theatricals, and the race meeting which was to be held after Christmas. A long altercation ensued respecting the prices of tickets, in which Monty, Pussy and Mrs. Chandos took part. Even Granny Lopez threw in a word or two, but Verona and her father remained silent; his thoughts were obviously elsewhere, and as far as the family were concerned, his body might have accompanied them; evidently they were accustomed to his attitude of remoteness. Verona looked at his hollow, expressionless eyes, and wondered what manner of man he might be? His stolid, inert silence had an almost paralysing effect, but she struggled bravely against the sensation, and ventured several remarks on the climate, the wonderful beauty of the surrounding trees and shrubs, the war in South Africa; but to all these efforts the sole response was a brief, monosyllabic reply. She felt repulsed, painfully disappointed, and shrank into herself and silence.