The count, a handsome, polished Parisian, speaking excellent English, bowed over Mrs. Shackleton’s hand, and then, in answer to her words of introduction, shot an exploring look, warmed by a glimmer of discreet admiration, at Mariposa. He wondered who she was, for his practised eye took in at a glance that she was shabbily dressed and evidently not of the world of bonanza millions. He wished that he knew her, now that he had made up his mind to spend some months in San Francisco, paying court to the heiress who would make him such an admirable wife, and in whose society time hung so heavily on his hands. Mariposa excused herself and hurried away. She was angry and confused. It seemed to her she had done nothing but be rude and obstinately stupid, while the cold and composed older woman had eyed her with wary attentiveness. What did Mrs. Shackleton think she had meant? She felt that the widow had not, for a moment, abandoned the scheme of sending her away. Descending the wide steps in the early dark, the girl realized that the woman she had just left was not going to be beaten from her purpose by what appeared a girl’s unreasonable caprice. A man coming up the steps brushed by her, paused for a moment, and then mechanically raised his hat. In the gleam of the lamps, held aloft at the top of the flight, she recognized the thin face and eye-glasses of Win Shackleton. She did not return the salute, as it was completely unexpected, and from the foot of the stairs she heard the hall door bang behind him. “Who was that girl I met on the steps just now, going out?” Win asked his mother, as they went upstairs together. “That Miss Moreau your father was interested in. He was going to send her to Paris to learn singing.” “What was she doing here?” “I sent for her. I wanted to talk over things with her. I intended sending her.” “And did you fix it?” “No,” with a little laugh, “she’s a very changeable young woman. She says she doesn’t want to go now; that she’s come to the conclusion she doesn’t want to be under the obligation.” “That’s funny,” said Win. “She must be sort of original. Mommer, why did the governor want to send her to Paris? What was it made him so interested in her?” “He knew her father long ago, mining, in the Sierra, and Moreau did him a good turn up there. Your father had never forgotten it and was anxious to repay it by helping the daughter. She don’t seem to be easy to help.”