She had in her trunk one month’s salary. Every bit should go to the woman whose peon she had become. In forgetting her own further necessity to exist, she was acting with characteristic feminine recklessness. There being no post-office at Guindulman, Julie rolled up the bills neatly, put them in an envelope, and addressed it to Mrs. Morris. Thereupon her mental processes took quite a leap. She arose with a shade even of self-satisfaction. It was splendid to be an independent integer of the world—to handle your own destiny—to say nothing of your own money—unafraid.
Into the midst of these cogitations came the Calcedos’ muchacho, to announce a young man.
“What young man?” Julie demanded particularly.
“El Teserero!” the muchacho declared.
Julie dropped back flatly in her seat. Since the uncomfortable and startling moments on the boat, she had contrived never to meet the Treasurer alone. She knew how dissatisfied with this he had been, and that in the midst of his activities planned to supersede the Governor in power, he had been lying in wait for his opportunity. She could see no way out of the encounter, and fortified herself for it as she ascended the stairs to the sala.
The Treasurer held her hand an instant and regarded her closely with his odd light eyes. The surprisingly sun-burnt face wore a look that sobered her. She indicated a chair.
Mr. Purcell demurred. “Let’s go out on the balcony,” he suggested, regarding with disapproval the publicity of their surroundings.
“Oh, I think I should rather remain here,” she replied lightly.
“You don’t object to going out there with the others,” he reproached.
“There are several of them,” Julie explained.