Afterwards, when the party had inspected the reservoirs and upper flumes, Beatriz found herself returning to the bench with Lucky Banks. It was almost sunset, and the far Chelan peaks were touched with Alpine fire; below them an amethyst mist filtered over the transformed vale. They had been discussing the architecture of the building.
"I had often gone over the map of the project with David," she said, "but he must have drawn the plans of the house later, in Alaska. It was a complete surprise. I wonder he remembered the old hacienda so accurately; he was there only once—when we were on our wedding journey."
"There were a few measurements that had to be looked up," admitted Banks; "but I took a little run around into lower California last winter, on my way home from Washington, D.C."
"You were there? You troubled to go all the way to the old rancheria for details?"
"Yes, ma'am. It was a mighty good grazing country down there, but the people who bought the place were making their money out of one of those fine hotels; it was put up alongside a bunch of hot springs. Nobody but a couple of Mexicans was living in the old house. It was in bad shape."
"I know. I know. If I had been a man, it would have been different. I should have restored it; I should have worked, fought to buy back every acre. But you saw old Jacinta and Carlos? It was recorded in the title they should be allowed to stay there and have the use of the old home garden as long as they lived. My mother insisted on that."
They had reached the level and walked on by the house towards the solitary pine tree on the rim of the bench. After a moment he said: "Now Dave's project is running in good shape, there isn't much left for me to do, my, no, except see the statue set up in the park."
"I wanted to ask you about that, Mr. Banks; we passed the place on the way to the bungalow. It was beautiful. I presume you have selected a woman's figure—a lovely Ceres or Aphrodite?"
"No, ma'am," responded Banks a little sharply. "It's a full-sized man. Full-sized and some over, what the sculptor who made it calls heroic; and it's a good likeness of Dave Weatherbee."
They had reached the pine tree, and she put out her hand to steady herself on the bole. "I understand," she said slowly. "It was a beautiful— tribute."