Don Raymundo was gazing from his window off into the distance, where the gathering shadows were blending forest and cane-field.
"Chocolate is very good," he said thoughtfully.
Three women tramped in the glare of endless Segovia beach. One was young and graceful; another was a comely, ox-like thing of middle age; the third was at the end of life. They halted for a moment to rest, and the grandmother squatted on her haunches and gazed, unseeing, out over the water.
"There will be a wedding at the hacienda next month," said the girl.
"Yes," said her mother, "the young American will marry Señorita Dolores. They say he is very rich, richer than Don Raymundo."
"He is very big and handsome," said the girl wistfully. "And Doña Dolores—she is very beautiful and kind."
A flash of jealousy crossed the mother's broad, good-natured face. "Yes," she said, "she is beautiful. But after all she is only a mestiza, almost a Filipina like the rest of us. And she will grow old."
Then, having halted a moment, they tramped on along their path like phantoms risen on the lifeless beach, for the youngest was but a memory of what the eldest had been a little time before, and the eldest was only a prophecy of what the youngest soon would be.