“Pleased and flattered,” murmured Mrs. Willers, pushing back her chair, and kicking a space in the newspapers, so that she could cross her knees at ease. “But, don’t hurry, Mrs. Shackleton. Work’s well on and I’m at your disposal for a good many ten minutes.” “It’s just to talk over that letter you sent me by Win. What do you understand by Miss Moreau’s behavior, Mrs. Willers?” “I don’t understand anything by it. I don’t understand it at all.” “That’s the way it seems to me. There’s only one explanation of it that I can see, and you say that isn’t the right one.” “What was that?” “That there’s some man here she’s interested in. When a girl of that age, without a cent, or a friend or a prospect, refuses an offer that means a successful and maybe a famous future, what’s a person to think? Something’s stopping her. And the only thing I know of that would stop her is that she’s fallen in love. But you say she hasn’t.” “She don’t strike me as being so. She don’t talk like a girl in love.” “Is there any man who is interested in her and sees her continually?” Mrs. Willers was naturally a truthful woman, but a hard experience of life had taught her to prevaricate with skill and coolness when she thought the occasion demanded it. She saw no menace now, however, and was entirely in sympathy with Mrs. Shackleton in her annoyance at Mariposa’s irritating behavior. “Yes,” she said, nodding with grave eyes, “there _is_ a man.” “Oh, there _is_,” said the other, bending forward with a sudden eager interest that was not lost upon Mrs. Willers. “Who?” “One of our men here, Barry Essex.” “Essex!” exclaimed the widow, with a sudden light of relieved comprehension suffusing her glance. “Of course. I know him. That dark, foreign-looking man that nobody knows anything about. Mr. Shackleton thought a great deal of him; said he was thrown away on _The Trumpet_. He’s not a bit an ordinary sort of person.” “That’s the one,” said Mrs. Willers, nodding her head in somber acquiescence. “And you’re right about nobody knowing anything about him. He’s a dark mystery, I think.” “And you say he’s in love with her?” “That’s what I’d infer from what she tells me.” “What _does_ she tell you?” “He’s asked her to marry him.” “Then they’re engaged. That accounts for the whole thing.” “No, they’re not engaged. She’s refused him.” “Refused him? That girl who’s been living in an adobe at Santa Barbara, refuse that fine-looking fellow? Why, she’ll never see a man like that again in her life. _She’s_ not refused him? Of course, she’s engaged to him.” “No, you’re mistaken. She’s not. She doesn’t like him.” “That’s what she tells you. Girls always say that sort of thing. That explains the way she’s acted from the start. He hadn’t asked her when Mr. Shackleton was alive. She’s engaged to him now and doesn’t want to leave him. She struck me as just that soft, sentimental sort.”