Then Consuello spoke.
"I always hate to leave them there—they seem so lonely," she said.
"You must leave them?" John asked in surprise.
"Yes," she said, slowly, softly, thoughtfully.
She offered no explanation. John wondered why it was. He had always thought of her as the daughter of a family financially comfortable, perhaps wealthy. He recalled that there was no automobile or garage at the Carrillo home and that they were riding in a machine some one had put at her disposal. Her name, he knew, as a Carrillo was enough to admit her to such homes as the Barton Randolphs.
The words of her father—"this is all that is left, what you see around you"—came back to him. Could it possibly be that they were actually poor?
Because it was late she insisted upon taking him to his home.
"Sometime," he said as they parted, "I want you to meet my mother."
"I should like to very, very much," she answered. "And we must see each other again, soon."
"You have already made a dream come true," he said. "I shall never forget your kindness."