"The name is given because of the old well," the Mexican explained. "It is very ancient, very deep—without bottom, the peóns believe." They drew up before a charming house of creamy pink plaster and red tiles, rioted over by flowering vines. "I wait but to make sure that Señor or Señora King is at home." A soft-eyed Mexican woman came to the door and smiled at them, and there was a rapid exchange of liquid sentence. "They are both at home, Señorita. We bid you farewell."
The servant, wide-eyed and curious, had come at his command to take Honor's bags.
"Oh—but—surely you'll wait? Won't you come in and rest? It was such a long, warm drive, and you must be tired."
He bowed, hat in hand, shaking his handsome silver head. "We leave you to the embraces of your friends, Señorita. One day we will do ourselves the honor to call upon you, and Señor and Señora King, whom it is our privilege to know very slightly. For the present, we are content to have served you."
"Oh," said Honor in her hearty and honest voice, holding out a frank hand, "this is the kindest country! Every one has been so good to me! I wish I could thank you enough!"
The old gentleman stood very straight and a dark color surged up in his swarthy face. "Then, dear young lady, you will perhaps have the graciousness to say a pleasant word for us in that country of yours which does not love us too well! You will perhaps say we are not all barbarians." He gave an order to his coachman and the quaint old carriage turned slowly and precisely and started on its long return trip, the Profesor, still bareheaded, bowing, his daughter beaming and kissing her hand. Honor held herself rigidly to the task of seeing them off. Then—Jimsy! Where was he? She had had a childish feeling that he would be instantly visible when she got there; she had come from Italy to Mexico,—from Florence to a coffee plantation beyond Córdoba in the tierra caliente to find him,—and journeys ended in lovers' meeting, every wise man's son—and daughter—knew. The nods and becks and wreathed smiles of the serving woman brought her back to earth.
"Señora King?" She asked, dutifully, for her hostess—her unconscious hostess—first.
"Si Señorita! Pronto!" The servant beckoned her into a dim, cool sala and disappeared. "Well, I know what that means," Honor told herself. "'Right away.' Oh, I hope it's right away!"
But it was not. The Kings, like all sensible people, were at their siesta; twenty racking moments went by before they came in. Richard King was older than Jimsy's father but he had the same look of race and pride, and his wife was a plain, rather tired-looking Englishwoman with very white teeth and broodingly tender blue eyes which belied the briskness of her manner.
"I am Honor Carmody."