"His wife? Santa Maria! The man has no wife. Half the girls of Los Angeles county try to marry him, but it is never any use."
"Anita!"
"How you stare at me, Raquel! You think I mean some other American, maybe. No? I speak of Don Keith Bryton. You hate them all so; no one ever speaks of them to you; but he is not bad. He saved your Indian woman at the ranch while you slept. You did not know it all."
"Stop, and let me think," said Raquel, imperatively. "Some one has lied. Who is the fair woman with the blue eyes—the Mrs. Bryton—the Doña Angela he drove with—the—"
"She is the widow of his half-brother; that is all."
"All? Then how—why should Teresa say this thing? Yesterday I heard her say that Doña Angela made a flirtation with Rafael only to make Señor Bryton jealous. I heard it, though she did not know. Why should that be, if it is only his brother's wife?"
"Oh, God alone knows the heart of a woman, Raquel! It may be all a lie. Our people do not understand the gringo women. They look love to so many men, and mean it, perhaps, for none. But it was thought, yes, plainly said, when she first came to Los Angeles, that Keith Bryton was the one man she wanted to marry. But that is all over now; no one thinks—"
"Teresa thinks."
"Teresa had better be at her prayers! I could tell you something strange of Keith Bryton,—only you are not interested in gringos,—something of a love of his, and I feel sure it is never the pretty Doña Angela."
"Tell me," said Raquel, coldly.