Catalina threw on her dressing-gown and leaned far out of her window. The very air felt as if it had been drenched by the golden shower of the morning sun, and so clear it was, it glittered like the sea. Across the narrow way was a stately white house, doubtless the “palace” of a rich man, and behind it, high above the street, was a beautiful garden, at whose very end, in an angle of the stone wall, stood a palm-tree. Beyond that palm-tree, so delicate and graceful in its peculiar stiffness, was a glimpse of blue water. Far below was a cross street in which no one moved as yet, and beside her were the balcony and garden of the hotel and the vines hanging over the wall. Catalina sang, in the pure joy of being alive, a snatch of one of the Spanish songs still to be heard in Southern California. “Buenas dias, señorita,” broke in a low and cautious voice, and Catalina, turning with a start and frown, saw that Captain Over was looking round the corner of the balcony. “If you will come out here,” he continued, “I will make you a cup of coffee, and then we can go for a walk.” Catalina nodded amiably, and, hastily dressing herself, opened her long window and joined him. He had brought his travelling-lamp and coffee-pot, and the water was simmering. With the exception of a man who was cleaning harness in the court below, they seemed to be the only persons awake. The air was heavy laden with sweet scents, and the garden in the fresh morning light was a riot of color. The Mediterranean was murmuring seductively to the shore. “This is heaven,” sighed Catalina. “Why can’t one always be free from care like this—the Moultons, to be exact. Let’s you and I and Lydia run away from the rest.” “When I run away with a woman I shall not take a chaperon,” said Over, coolly. Catalina could assume the blankness of a mask, but upon repartee she never ventured. “Am I not to do any of the work?” she asked. “I am sick of being waited on. At home I often make my own breakfast before my lazy Mexicans are up, and saddle my horse. I do a great deal of work on the ranch, first and last, for I believe in work—and I didn’t get the idea from Tolstoï, either. I don’t like Tolstoï,” she added, defiantly. “He’s one of those gigantic fakes the world always believes in.” “Well, I’ve never read a line of Tolstoï,” admitted Captain Over, who was carefully revolving his coffee-machine, “so I can’t argue with you. But work! This is all the work I want.” “Don’t you love work?” “I don’t.” “But you do work.” “At what?” “Oh, in the army and all that.” “My orderly does the work.” “You are so provoking. There is all sorts of work you must do yourself.” “Well, why do you remind me of anything so painful, when I am doing my best to forget it? You are not an altruist or a socialist, are you?”