“It is highly romantic,” replied Catalina, dryly. “The setting was not all that it might have been, and I have seen too many picturesque vaqueros all my life to be deeply impressed by a handsome peasant in a blouse; but I suppose any romance is better than none in this Old World.” She felt vaguely alarmed, and half a generation older than this silly little cousin whose suburban experience made her peculiarly susceptible to any semblance of romance in Europe; but as Lydia, repelled in her girlish confidence, drew stiffly away from her, Catalina relented with a gush of feminine sympathy. “I really mean that a bit of romance like that makes life more endurable,” she asserted. “And you may be sure that your marquis would not have been so delicate. I wonder who he is! He certainly is a personage in his way. Of course, you’ll never see him again, but it will be something to think about when you are married to an author and correcting his type-written manuscripts!” Lydia, mollified, laughed merrily. “I’m never going to marry any old author. Let the recording angel take note of that. I’m sick of mutual admiration societies—and all the rest of it. If I can’t do any better I’ll manage to marry some enterprising young business man and help him to grow rich.” Catalina, who had had her own way all her life, nevertheless appreciated the colorless shallows in which her cousin had splashed of late in the vain attempt to reach a shore, and replied, sympathetically: “Come back to California when I go and live on my ranch for a while. Out-of-doors is what you want; a far-away horizon is as good for the soul as for the eyes. And you’ll get enough of the picturesque and all the liberty you can carry—” She paused abruptly and Lydia caught her breath. In the street below was the sound of a guitar, then of a man’s impassioned voice. The girls stole to the edge of the balcony and looked over. There was no moon, and the vines were close. The street was thick with shadows, but they could see the lithe, active figure of a man clad in velvet jacket and smallclothes. His head was flung back and his quick, rich notes seemed to leap to the balcony above. Catalina had forgotten that her candles still burned. Their rays fell directly on the girls. The man saw them and his voice burst forth in such peremptory volume, ringing against the walls of the narrow street, that heads began to appear at many windows. “It is that peasant we saw on the train to-day,” said Over’s amused voice behind the girls. “He was in the café a moment ago and is got up in full peasant finery. You made a conquest, Miss Lydia.”