"Yes, San Franciso's a great place. Only I haven't had time to go there once in a blue moon. And just now it's those old associations pulling—something seems drawing and drawing me to the East. It's like a voice calling my name—'Nick—Nick, I want you. Come!' Funny, isn't it?"
Carmen was not sure that it was funny. For she was superstitious beyond all things; and at that moment it happened that she could hear the moaning note of doves—a sound which she believed always brought her bad luck.
"What kind of a voice is it?" she asked, laughing rather shrilly. "Not a woman's, I hope?"
"I guess it's that angel's I was telling you about." Nick smiled.
Carmen motioned the Chinese butler to fill her guest's glass, which he had hardly touched.
"Don't let's talk any more of angels," she said. "Let's talk of me, and you. Nick, do you know what to-night is? A year since I was free. 'At the end of a year' I always said to myself. 'Twelve long months of hypocritical respect paid to the memory of a person who was more brute than man. But not a day more, when the twelve months are over. Then—happiness—new life!' Don't you consider I'm justified in feeling like that?"
Nick thought for a moment, not looking at Carmen. He gazed out through the torn curtain of roses into the silver of the moonlight, over the wide lawn with its fountains, toward the walls of trees which screened from sight the rolling billows of the ranch-meadows with their cattle, their shining, canal-like irrigation-ditches, their golden grain, their alfalfa, their fruit and flowers. All this wealth and much more old Grizzly Gaylor had given the pretty young singer in exchange for her beauty and the pleasure of snatching her away from other men. Despite the "boss's" notorious failings, it grated on Hilliard to hear Carmen rejoice aloud because her husband was underground, and she was free of him now that his back was turned forever.
"Probably you're right," Nick said. "Yet—it kind of rubs me up the wrong way to listen to you talkin' like that, in particular just this very night."
"Why in particular this very night?" she asked sharply.
"Well—I guess it's only conventional, because, why are twelve months more important than fourteen or any other number? But it's the feeling of an anniversary, I suppose. A year ago to-day he breathed his last—and he didn't want to die. It sort of seems as if to-day ought to be sacred to him, no matter what he was. And—maybe I'm a dashed hypocrite and don't know it, but it doesn't suit my ideas of you to get the feeling that you set up to-night as festival. I expect I'm wrong, though, and you ought to be lecturin' me instead of me you."