Don Ramón was in white, a white dinner-jacket: Don Cipriano the same. But there were other guests, young Garcia, another pale young man called Mirabal, and an elderly man in a black cravat, named Toussaint. The only other woman was Doña Isabel, aunt to Don Ramón. She wore a black dress with a high collar of black lace, and some strings of pearls, and seemed shy, frightened, absent as a nun before all these men. But to Kate she was very kind, caressive, speaking English in a plaintive faded voice. This dinner was a sort of ordeal and ritual combined, to the cloistered, elderly soul.
But it was soon evident that she was trembling with fearful joy. She adored Ramón with an uncritical, nun-like adoration. It was obvious she hardly heard the things that were said. Words skimmed the surface of her consciousness without ever penetrating. Underneath, she was trembling in nun-like awareness of so many men, and in almost sacred excitement at facing Don Ramón as hostess.
The house was a fairly large villa, quietly and simply furnished, with natural taste.
“Do you always live here?” said Kate to Don Ramón. “Never at your hacienda?”
“How do you know I have a hacienda?” he asked.
“I saw it in a newspaper—near Sayula.”
“Ah!” he said, laughing at her with his eyes. “You saw about the returning of the Gods of Antiquity.”
“Yes,” she said. “Don’t you think it is interesting?”
“I think so,” he said.
“I love the word Quetzalcoatl.”