The lady waved her hand and flung a bright smile toward the half-brother of her husband. He lifted his hat, but did not move from his tracks until the horses came to a halt, brought suddenly to their haunches by the driver, who was making a showy entrance into the village for the gratification of the lady.
"I've had a delightful trip from Los Angeles—thanks to Don Rafael," she called, gaily. "I never—never expect to drive so fast again. Come and help me down!"
But the slender, handsome Mexican beside her had leaped to the ground, and, sombrero in hand, was ready to perform that service before the American reached the stage.
"You are always the day after the fair, Keith," she remarked, her eyes narrowing in a smile. "I am a thousand times obliged to Señor Arteaga!"
"It is I who am honored, señora," he returned with a sweep of the sombrero, and one brief yet steady look into her eyes. Mrs. Bryton turned away with a pleased little smile, and proceeded to shake the dust from the ruffles of her sleeve.
Keith Bryton saw both the look and the smile, and it gave a tinge of coldness to his greeting.
"How do you do, Señor Arteaga?" he remarked. "Thank you for looking after Mrs."—the word seemed hard to say—"Bryton. Are you adding stage-driving to your other accomplishments?"
Rafael Arteaga had caused too much jealousy in his day not to suspect he recognized it in the attitude of the American, whom it was something of a victory to outrival.
"Only when there is extra precious cargo on board," he said, meaningly. "American ladies are rare in San Juan. I was the only one present to show our appreciation of such a visit."
"But I am not an American—never in this world!" she insisted. "It was only the accident of marriage took me to your Mexican America. I was born in London, and am a subject of the Queen! Don't ever fancy me an American!"