They were ushered into a dining room where a table generously laid was before them.
"Señora Valentino," asked the hostess, "will you not take the head of the table?"
The señora complied.
"I am not very strong these days," the elderly lady explained, "and I am happy that so fair and clever a hand as Señora Valentino's is here to manage in serving the dinner."
Señora Valentino presided gracefully.
"Señor Jones," she said, with just a hint of emphasis on 'Jones,' "may I ask if you have been long in Alta California?"
"Well, no. In fact, only a few days or so."
The hour of dinner passed pleasantly. Places of interest were spoken of; men and events discussed. Spain, France, England, were passed in review. Señora Miramontes was European born. Her husband had been Spanish ambassador at the great capitals; and the splendid Miramonte grant in West Santa Clara Valley was his reward for able service.
"Thirty years and more have I been here," she said. "It was a splendid wilderness when we came; nevertheless, a wilderness. We have claimed it for our own, and now it smiles for us. The flag of great Spain once waved over these valleys. The tread of Spanish friars hallowed the ground; and God blessed the work of these men with hundredfold increase. Then the Mexican colors replaced those of Spain. Ah, me! But Mexico cares nothing for us; and at heart we are still Spaniards. Yes, Spaniards; never Mexicans!"
The meal over, the party went to an adjoining room. A fire flickered on a vast, old-fashioned hearth. Candles were not lighted, and the shadows danced fitfully on the walls and tapestries of the apartment.