Catalina was furious with herself, the more so as she had descended to the level of her cousins, whom she secretly despised as snobs. She did not know how to extricate herself from the position she had assumed, and answered, lamely: “Poverty? You don’t look poor.” “Only my debts keep me from being a pauper.” “And you don’t mind travelling third?” “Mind? It’s comfortable enough; as comfortable as sleeping on the ground.” Catalina’s face illumined. For the first time it occurred to him that she might be pretty. She forgot the awkward subject, and asked, eagerly: “Were you in the Boer War?” “Yes.” “All through it?” “Pretty well.” “Do tell me about it. I never before met any one who had been in the Boer War, and it interested me tremendously.” “There’s nothing to tell but what you must have read in the papers.” “I suppose that is an affectation of modesty.” “Not at all. Nothing is so commonplace as war. There is nothing in it to make conversation about.” “But you lost such a dreadful number of officers!” “We had plenty to spare—could have got along better with less.” His cheerfulness was certainly unaffected. The two pairs of dark eyes watched each other narrowly, his keen and amused, hers with their stolid surface and slumbering fires. “But you were wounded!” she said, triumphantly. “Never was hit in my life.” “But you have been ill!” “Oh, ill, fast enough—rheumatism.” Her eyes softened. “Ah, sleeping on the damp ground!” “No. Drink.” For a moment the sullen fires in Catalina boiled high, then her eyes caught the sparkle in his and she burst into a ringing peal of laughter. She laughed rarely, and when she did her whole being vibrated to the buoyancy of youth. “Well,” she said, gayly, “I hope you have reformed. The Moultons are temperance—rabid—and I had rheumatism once from camping out. I had to set my teeth for a week. Then I went to a sulphur spring and cured it. But I am hungry. Isn’t there a restaurant here, somewhere?” “I was about to suggest a visit to the Café Miramar. It is only a step from here.”