It was the señor’s turn to look crestfallen. What his little lady declared against him was quite true; but this had never prevented his adopting an air of great mystery and secrecy whenever the slightest occasion offered. Poor old Sutro Vives was not the only one in this world bigger in his own estimation than in that of anybody else.
But he rallied as swiftly as she had done. “Tente! what of that? He will not stay at San’ Felisa—yes? In verity, no; I have taken care about that.”
“Sutro, you look, you truly do look, naughty! What badness have you been doing now, señor? Answer me that.”
“Is the truth badness? Then have I been bad,” retorted the other, bridling. “I have told him the truth, this not-wanted, unmannerly, new director-manager. Thou belongest to us,—to the vaqueros and caballeros, and everybody who dwells at San’ Felisa. It is in thee the ‘good luck’ lives; and thou wilt never be allowed to go away from us, so I tell thee! There will be mutiny, uprising; what Connecticut Jim calls ‘strike.’ But go from Santa Felisa, thou? No!—a thousand times no!”
Unperceived by them, Lord Plunkett had forsaken the other table and the business talk, which he found tiresome, for that of the pair in the cozy corner, which appeared to be interesting; and he had thrown himself upon a lounge which the back of Steenie’s big chair hid from view, to play the part of eavesdropper; only in this case it seemed not ignoble, for the two animated disputants spoke quite loudly enough to be heard by anybody in the room who had chosen to listen. He had, therefore, enjoyed the whole dialogue, and he now leaned forward to watch Steenie’s bright face and to catch her reply.
“But I answer you and Jim and everybody—yes! Where my father goes I will go, and all this silly talk won’t stop me! Next Saturday morning, Sutro Vives, the noisy black engine will stop at San’ Felisa station, and Papa Calthorp and I will get into one of those big cars, and will go whizz, away, away!—where you nor Bob nor Jim nor nobody can do wicked, hateful things to the Little Un, never again!”
Wrought up by the pathos of her own picture, Steenie’s self-control gave way at this juncture, and bounding toward her father, who seemed at that moment to be a cruel enemy, and yet her only friend, she astonished him by a torrent of tears and embraces which effectually stopped all further conversation.
“Sutro!” called Mr. Calthorp, sternly.
“Si, señor; how can I serve thee?”
“Here, go with Miss Steenie and find Suzan´. Daughter, let me see no more of this childishness. Such rebellion is unworthy of you and most distressing to me. Good-night.”