"The goddess of wealth has listened to Captain Morando," informed Pedro Zelaya. "The sweet odor of his gratefulness floats around. The rest of us wonder and envy."
"Captain, turn the tables," from Mendoza. "Let not the señoritas bear all before them." To a peona, "Naomi, bring more eggs."
The eggs were passed around by dainty basketfuls to the young men who singled out their lady-loves and generously bespangled them with the confetti which, moist from scented waters, clung where it fell.
The señoritas, hair down their backs, flitted about like iridescent butterflies. Neither were they idle in egg-breaking. Demurely they would divert a caballero's attention, then quickly break a shell on his hair, coat or vest.
The men soon shone in colors as resplendent as those of the señoritas.
Perfume filled the air.
Mendoza signaled the musicians. The opening notes of the grand march sounded. The egg-breaking ceased.
Señor Mendoza and his daughter led the march. Dance after dance followed in quick succession.
"The merriment tempts not my son of late," said Señora Zelaya. "He is over in that corner talking politics with men a decade his senior. It is politics, always politics, with him now."
"Relations strain between Mexico and the United States of America. If there comes a break, California must be affected. Your son, Señora Zelaya, and all good Californians, each day are searching carefully the political horizon."