Mariposa had nothing to respond. In a desperate desire for flight and protection she looked for Benito, but he was at the top of the slope, well out of earshot of anything but a scream. Essex surveyed her face with fond attention. “You’re looking better than you did before you moved,” he said; “you were just a little too pale then. You know, I didn’t know it was you at all. I was looking at you as I came across the drive, and I hadn’t the least idea it was you till I saw your hair”--his eye lighted on it caressingly--“I knew there was only one woman in San Francisco with hair like that.” His voice seemed to mesmerize her at first. Now her volition came back and she rose. “Benito!” she cried; “come at once.” The two little boys had their heads close together and neither turned. “What are you going to go for?” said Essex in surprise. “What a question!” she said, picking up her book with a trembling hand, and thinking in her ignorance that he spoke honestly; “what an insulting question!” “Insulting! What on earth do you mean by that?” coaxingly. “Please tell me why you are going?” “Because I don’t want ever to see you or speak to you again,” she said in a voice shaken with anger. “I couldn’t have believed any man could be so lacking in decency as--as--to do this.” “Do what?” he asked with an air of blank surprise. “What am I doing?” “Thrusting yourself on me this way when--when--you know that the sight of you is humiliating and hateful to me.” “Oh, Mariposa!” he said softly. He looked into her face with eyes brimming with teasing tenderness. “How can you say that to me when my greatest fault has been to love you?” “Love me!” she ejaculated with breathless scorn; “love me! Oh, Benito,”--calling with all her force--“come; do come. I want you!” Benito, who undoubtedly must have heard, was too pleasantly engaged with the companionship of his new friend to make any response. Early in life he had learned the value of an occasional attack of deafness. Mariposa made a motion to go to him, but Essex gently moved in front of her. She drew away from him, knitting her brows in helpless, heated rage. “You know you’re treating me very badly,” he said. “Treating you very badly,” she now fairly gasped, once more a bewildered fly in the net of this subtile spider, “how else should I treat you?” “Kindly,” he said, softly bending his compelling glance on her, “as a woman treats a man who loves her.” “Mr. Essex,” she said, turning on him with all the dignity she had at her command, “we don’t seem to understand each other. The last time I saw you, you insulted and humiliated me. I don’t know how it can be, but you seem to have forgotten all about it. I haven’t. I never can, and I don’t want to see you or speak to you or think of you ever again in this world.” “What makes you think I’ve forgotten?” he said, suddenly dropping his voice to a key that thrilled with meaning.