“And when we go out riding together, you will show me how to throw the lassoo, won’t you? I want so much to learn that little accomplishment....”
Scarcely were the words out of her mouth when she saw how inopportune they were; for Watson turned his eyes away from her, and a shadow passed over his face, the shadow cast perhaps by a procession of memories....
Instinctively she knew that, most vivid of the images before him was that of a girl throwing the lariat, and trying to teach him how to do it, one golden afternoon, at the far end of a green meadow. To dispel the picture, Elena came close to him and put both hands on the lapels of his blouse. She wanted apparently to see her own reflection in his eyes, while in her own she seemed to be trying to concentrate all her powers of seduction.
“We are really friends?” she murmured. “Friends for good and all? Friends who can trust one another beyond all calumny and envy?”
At the magic of her touch and the fragrance she exhaled, the memory of the river bank and his happy hours with Celinda grew faint, vanished.... There was something within him nevertheless which struggled to resist the influence that was trying to envelope him. He thought for a moment of those fatal women he had read about, and he moved his head as though about to shake it.... “No!” He raised his hands to his blouse lapels to detach her hands from them. But at the contact of his fingers with the soft smooth skin of her hands, he stopped dismayed; and then very gently he caressed them. And when he looked into Elena’s eyes, that were imploring a reply to her question, he merely nodded.... “Yes!”
From that day on Watson became the marquesa’s only escort on her rides.
In front of Pirovani’s former residence the half-breed in charge of the contractor’s stables would take up his stand, holding the bridle of a white mare on which was a side-saddle. Then Richard would appear mounted on his horse. The marquesa, in riding costume, was coming down the steps, while Pirovani, as though he had been waiting in hiding for her arrival, would rush up to her to offer his greetings, and suggest that he too knew how to ride.
But the “señora marquesa” would have none of his company.
“You have business to attend to, señor Pirovani. My husband says that you’ve been away a good deal lately, and I don’t like to hear that! The señor Watson has more free time now and he is going with me....”
In time the Italian came to accept these words with a certain pleasure. What an interest the marquesa took in his work! And could she, after all, show any more clearly how much all that concerned him was important to her? Besides, there was no particular reason to be jealous of Watson. Everyone always thought of him as engaged to the Rojas girl ... so, unwillingly enough, Pirovani would retire and betake himself to the dam.