Miss Holmes welcomed her guest warmly and brought her a glass of delightful fruit sherbet. The place was plain enough, and yet it gave evidence of refined and womanly tastes in its adornments. And the clustering vines and bloom made a complete bower of it.
Mrs. Westbury espied the guitar. She was really glad there was no piano. Was Laverne musical?
"I've been learning the guitar. And I sing some. But you should hear my friend at Oaklands. Her voice is most beautiful. If mine was not a contralto I shouldn't venture to sing with her."
"You don't look like a contralto. A pure blonde should be a soprano."
"Perhaps I'm not a very pure blonde," with a merry light in her eyes. "I've heard concert singers who could not compare with Miss Savedra, but her people would be shocked at the idea of her singing in public. I was telling her about you. We are great friends. She is odd in some ways and foreign; they are Spanish people, but I love her better than any girl I know."
"And this Olive?" questioningly.
"Oh, Olive. She took a great liking to me in the beginning—we were quite children. She and the Savedras are cousins. And her father married a friend of Miss Holmes, but she is a delightful stepmother. Only now Olive seems so much older and has lovers. Yes, we are friends in a way, but we do not really love each other."
"And you haven't any lovers?"
"Oh, no." She flushed at that. "I don't want any. Why, I am not through school."
Mrs. Westbury found that she could not only read, but talk French and Spanish, and that she was being sensibly educated. But that was not the chief charm. It was a simplicity that defied art, a straightforwardness that was gentle, almost deprecating, yet never swerved from truth, a sweetness that was winning, a manner shy but quite captivating. And though she told many things about her life up here on the hill, there were no indiscreet or effusive confidences such as she had often listened to in young girls.