The three then went to bring the ladies to their room.
Mercedes pleaded a headache, and George knew that she wished to be alone, to have a cry all to herself, as most girls would, when their sweethearts have just left them. So he said to Elvira:
“Mercedes had better lie down for a while. If she sleeps she will feel better.”
“I think so; I will join you presently,” Elvira answered. And hearing this the gentlemen retired.
Mercedes took her hat and gloves and cloak off, and sat at the window to enjoy her misery in a thorough womanly fashion. She fixed her eyes on the far-off, flying wall of verdure, seeing nothing, not even the tall trees which, close by, indulged in such grotesque antics, as if forgetting their stately dignity only to amuse her—making dancing dervishes of themselves, and converting that portion of the Pacific slope into a flying gymnasium to perform athletic exercises, rushing on madly, or even turning somersaults for her recreation.
Elvira left her alone with her thoughts, and silently devoted herself to unpacking their satchels, arranging their toilet things, traveling shawls and night-dresses and comfortable slippers all in their proper places. She then took her hat off, and tying a large black veil over her head (Spanish fashion), told her sister to sleep if she could, and not to cry, for, after all, Clarence would soon be in New York.
“Do you really think so?” said Mercedes' sad voice.
“Of course, I do. Clarence is too energetic and too much in love to be kept away.”
“But mamma—you know mamma's feelings.”
“Which will be entirely changed when she hears that Clarence is no squatter. Leave all that to papa. Come, give me a kiss, and if you can't sleep, put a veil over your head and come out. I am going to join the gentlemen.”