"No butlers for us, Uncle Rich'!" Jimsy was red but unabashed. "We might rent him for a movie star and live on his earnings. We aren't very clear yet as to what we will live on!"
The personage looked at him gravely. "You are going to settle in Los Angeles?"
"Yes!" said Jimsy and Honor in a breath. The good new life coming which would be the good old life over again, only better!
"Oh," said Mrs. King, "I forgot,—I asked them to come up from the quarters and make music for you! They're here now! Look!" She went to the window and the others followed. The garden was filled with vaguely seen figures, massed in groups, and there was a soft murmur of voices and the tentative strumming of guitars. "Shall we come out on the veranda? You'll want a rebozo, Honor,—the nights are sharp." She called back to the serving woman. "Put out the lights, Josita."
They sat in the dusk and looked out into the veiled and shadowy spaces and the dim singers lifted up their voices. The moon would rise late; there was no light save the tiny pin points of the cigarettes; it gave the music an elfin, eerie quality.
"Pretty crude after Italy, eh, Honor?" Richard King wanted to know.
"Oh, it's delicious, Mr. King! Please ask them to sing another!"
"May we have the Golondrina?" the eldest guest wanted to know.