She heard a foot on the gravel, but did not look up; several people had passed close to her crossing to the main drive. The new-comer advanced toward her idly, noting the grace of her attitude, the rich and yet elegant proportions of her figure. Her face was turned from him, but he saw the roll of rust-colored hair beneath her hat, started, and quickened his pace. He had come to a halt beside her before she looked up startled. A quick red rushed into her face. He, for his part, stood suave and smiling, holding his hat in one hand, no expression on his face but one of frank pleasure. Even in his eyes there was not a shade of consciousness.
“What a piece of luck!” he said. “Who’d have thought of meeting you here?”
Mariposa had nothing to respond. In a desperate desire for flight and protection she looked for Benito, but he was at the top of the slope, well out of earshot of anything but a scream.
Essex surveyed her face with fond attention.
“You’re looking better than you did before you moved,” he said; “you were just a little too pale then. You know, I didn’t know it was you at all. I was looking at you as I came across the drive, and I hadn’t the least idea it was you till I saw your hair”—his eye lighted on it caressingly—“I knew there was only one woman in San Francisco with hair like that.”
His voice seemed to mesmerize her at first. Now her volition came back and she rose.
“Benito!” she cried; “come at once.”
The two little boys had their heads close together and neither turned.
“What are you going to go for?” said Essex in surprise.
“What a question!” she said, picking up her book with a trembling hand, and thinking in her ignorance that he spoke honestly; “what an insulting question!”