The cards ran out, and Doña Ceferina glowed triumphant. "Another game, Hazleet?" she asked.
Hazlitt laughingly turned his pocket out to show that the modest sum allotted for the stakes of the day was exhausted, and Doña Ceferina swept up her little heap of silver. "You play worse than ever, I think," she said frankly.
"Still, I may learn panguingui before I die," said Hazlitt. A sudden impulse seized him. He leaned forward and fixed the mistress of the hacienda with his eye. "I rather think, Doña Ceferina," he said, with slow emphasis, "that I shall have to stay out here till I die. There seems to be no escape. I shall have to stay and—learn to play panguingui. What do you think?"
In the heavy eyes of Doña Ceferina a small glow kindled, as of the surviving remnants of a very tiny fire. Hazlitt had seen them light that way before, when Doña Ceferina reached the climax of a novel. The glow deepened, and she looked at his understandingly. Her hand trembled a little on the table. "Why not, Hazleet?" she said. "It—it would be very pleasant for all of us. I—" She rose hastily. "I shall have to leave you for a minute. I hope you and Dolores can amuse yourselves till luncheon," she said with elaborate innocence, and went away.
Hazlitt followed poor unsuspecting Dolores, thus left as a ewe lamb to the wolf, over to the window, and stood looking down with her, while the half-dozen maidens let needle and spindle fall, and exchanged knowing glances.
The rains had come and gone, and the tropical world was thrilling with the swift rush of its springtime. The black fields were mistily green with the new-set spikes of cane, the sky was fleecy with white banks of cloud, the very air was sweet and full of life. Hazlitt drew a deep breath of it. "God!" he said, "what a good old place this old world is to live in."
Dolores glanced up at him. No one would have called her a Madonna now. The spring-tide had entered into her, and she was vibrant with a thrill of living of which no monkish painter ever dreamed. "Why do you talk like that?" she demanded. "Of course it's a good world."
Hazlitt gazed down into the upturned eyes. "And you are happy in it, Dolores?" he asked.
At his tone Dolores flushed rosy and turned away, and her hand gripped the edge of the broad sill with little, helpless, useless fingers. Hazlitt laid his hand over it protectingly, and it did not draw away. "You are happy, Dolores?" he repeated.
"Of course," said Dolores faintly. "Why shouldn't I be, when everything is—so beautiful and—and good?"