"Good of you, Juanita. Who has been taking care of me?"
"Mrs. Corbett."
"And Juanita?"
"Sometimes."
"Ah! That's good of you, too, amiga."
She recalled a phrase she had often heard an American rancher's daughter say. "I loved to do it, señor."
"But why? I'm your enemy, you know. You ought to hate me. Do you?"
Once again the swift color poured into the dark cheeks, even to the round birdlike throat.
"No, señor."
He considered this an instant before he accused her whimsically. "Then you're not a good girl. You should hate the devil, and I'm his agent. Any of your friends will tell you that."