“Earthquakes are common in this region, aren’t they?” Freeman said.
“They have made it what it is, and may unmake it again,” replied the general. “The earthquake is the father of the desert, as the Indians say; and it may some day become the father of a more genial offspring. Veremos!”
“How are the young ladies?” inquired Freeman.
“Miriam has a little headache, I believe; and I thought Miss Parsloe was looking a trifle pale this morning. But you must see for yourself. Here they come.”
Grace, who was a little taller than Miriam, had thrown one arm round that young lady’s waist, with a view, perhaps, to forming a picture in which she should not be the secondary figure. In fact, they were both of them very pretty; but Freeman had become blind to any beauty but Miriam’s. Moreover, he was resolved to have some private conversation with her during the few minutes that were available. A conversation with the professor, and some meditations of his own, had suggested to him a line of attack upon Grace.
“I’m afraid you were disturbed by the earthquake last night?” he said to her.
“An earthquake? Why should you think so?”
“You look as if you had passed a restless night. I saw Senor de Mendoza this morning. He seems to have had a restless time of it, too. But he is a romantic person, and probably, if an earthquake did not make him sleepless, something else might.” He looked at her a moment, and then added, with a smile, “But perhaps this is not news to you?”
“He didn’t come—I didn’t see him,” returned Grace, wishing, ere the words had left her lips, that she had kept her mouth shut. Freeman continued to smile. How much did he know? She felt that it might be inexpedient to continue the conversation. Casting about for a pretext for retreat, her eyes fell upon Meschines.
“Oh, there’s the dear professor! I must speak to him a moment,” she exclaimed, vivaciously; and she slipped her arm from Miriam’s waist, and was off, leaving Freeman in possession of the field, and of the monopoly of Miriam’s society.