"Si, señor. Eef she was not marreed, perhaps you would beside her seet."
"I don't think so—at least, knowing her as I do now. Still, I don't blame her. I'm the cause of it all."
"You feel veree, veree bad?"
"I'll be honest with you, señorita—I can't tell whether I feel very bad or not. I have felt rather upset, I confess. But, my dear girl, human nature is peculiar. It's a strange thing, but I believe most men and most women take melancholy delight in feeling themselves to be martyrs. We all delight to moan over lost loves. That is the poetry in our natures. Occasionally we spend our time grieving over some lost love that reason and good judgment tells us would have come to naught under any circumstances. I hope Mrs. Morton is happy and satisfied. Perhaps you'll think me fickle, señorita, but let me confess to you the fact that I'm not feeling as much like grieving as I was—before I met you."
For a few moments Juanita did not seem to grasp his meaning, but when she did the soft, warm color mounted to her cheeks, and her confusion was plainly evident.
On the opposite side of the table Gallup nudged Teresa, who had been placed at his left.
"Hey, Teresa," he whispered, "get onto Carker. Gol rap him! He's making hay in a hurry."
"What ees eet you mean to make the hay?" questioned Teresa, puzzled. "To me it seem that he make the love. He talk so verree low that nobody except Juanita hear what he say, and Juanita she blush."
"That's right," chuckled Ephraim, "and, by Jim! Mrs. Morton is looking daggers and hoss pistols."
Then he lifted his voice and addressed Carker.