"Yes," he said, "alway I like the music. Si the piano need tune, I send one man down. You can dance, too, si you like it. Always I like see the young peoples dance." Tiny clapped her hands. Ila leaned forward and patted his hand. "What an inspiration!" she exclaimed. "This will be a simply gorgeous house to dance in. Don Roberto, you certainly are an angel!" Don Roberto had never been called an angel before, but he smiled approvingly. "Some night this week we have the dance," he said. "My wife write you to-night." "I am on the verge of nervous prostration," whispered Rose, as his attention was claimed by Mrs. Cartright. "The effort of keeping my countenance--but the way you handle a trowel, Tiny, is a new chapter in diplomacy. Butter and molasses for fifty and after; a vaporiser and _peau d'espagne_ for the sharp young things. I was just saying," she added hastily, as Don Roberto reclined suddenly and turned to her, "that young men are a nuisance. I am thinking of writing a book of advice--" "A book!" cried Don Roberto, his brows rushing together. "You no write the books?" "Of course she would never publish," interposed Tiny. "She would just write it for our amusement. I think it would be so horrid to publish the _cleverest_ book," she said, turning to Magdalena, unmistakable sincerity in her voice. "It has always seemed to me so--so--_horrid_ for women to write things to print--for _anybody_ to read." Magdalena did not answer her. She was staring at her father, breathless for his next words. "The ladies never write," announced that grandson of old Spain. "Nor the gentlemens. Always the common peoples write the books." "Oh, it's better now, really," said Rose. "Some people that write are said to be quite nice. Of course, one doesn't meet them in society,--in San Francisco society, at least,--but that may be the fault of society." "Of course," said Tiny. "I do not mean that people who write must be horrid. But I think I couldn't know a woman who made her name so public,--I mean if I hadn't been fond of her before; but I should really _hate_ to see a friend's name in print. You are not really thinking of writing a book, are you, Rose, dear?" "I have not the slightest idea of writing a book--for the very good reason that I haven't brains enough. You needn't worry about any of us adding to the glory of California--unless, to be sure, 'Lena should be clever enough." She spoke at random, and Magdalena's face did not betray her; but she almost hated the girl who was forcing her to another of her mental crises. "My daughter write!" shouted Don Roberto. "A Yorba! She make a fool de my name like the play-actor that do the monkey tricks on the stage? Si she do that--" "Here comes Mr. Trennahan," said Magdalena, standing up. "Mamma is not here. I must go to meet him."