"This is the golden age," cried that enthusiastic woman. "You Spaniards are the best people I ever saw. Your men absolutely emulate women in unselfishness." "We would do it if it were possible," bowed Coronado. "You do it," magnanimously insisted Aunt Maria, who felt that the baser sex ought to be encouraged. "Señor Garcia, I ask a favor of you," continued Clara. "You must charge all the costs of the journey overland to me." "It is unjust," replied the old man. "Madre de Dios! I can never permit it." "If you need the money now, I will request my guardians, the executors, to advance it," persisted Clara, seeing that he refused with a faint heart. "I might borrow it," conceded Garcia. "I shall have need of money presently. That journey was a great cost--a terribly bad speculation," he went on, shaking his mottled, bluish head wofully. "Not a piaster of profit." "We will see to that," said Clara. "And then, when I am of age--but wait." She shook her rosy forefinger gayly, radiant with the joy of generosity, and added, "You shall see. Wait!" Coronado, in a rapid whisper, translated this conversation phrase by phrase to Mrs. Stanley, his object being to make Clara's promises public and thus engage her to their fulfilment. "Of course!" exclaimed the impulsive Aunt Maria, who was amazingly generous with other people's money, and with her own when she had any to spare. "Of course Clara ought to pay. It is quite a different thing from giving up her rights. Certainly she must pay. That train did nothing but bring us two women. I really believe Mr. Garcia sent it for that purpose alone. Besides, the expense won't be much, I suppose." "No," said Coronado, and he spoke the exact truth; that is, supposing an honest balance. The expedition proper had cost seven or eight thousand dollars, and about two thousand more had been sunk in assassination fees and other "extras." On the other hand, he had sold his wagons and beasts at the high prices of California, making a profit of two thousand dollars. In short, even deducting all that Coronado meant to appropriate to himself, Garcia would obtain a small profit from the affair. Now ensued a strange underhanded drama. Garcia stayed week after week, riding often to the city on business or pretence of business, but passing most of his time at the hacienda, where he wandered about a great deal in a ghost-like manner, glancing slyly at Clara a hundred times a day without ever looking her in the eyes, and haunting her steps without overtaking or addressing her. Every time that she returned from a ride he shambled to the door to see if the saddle were empty. During the night he hearkened in the passages for outcries of sudden illness. And while he thus watched the girl, he was himself incessantly watched by his nephew. "She gets no worse," the old man at last complained to the younger one. "I think she is growing fat."