“Oh, no!” replied Willoughby. “I had nothing to do with it. But I do like the architectural lines of Mrs. Darlington’s home. She’s English and has English tastes, and transplanted ideas are not always successful in a new country. But in this case the building just seems to fit the scenery. It has always delighted me.”
“It is certainly beautiful,” concurred Munson as they walked along a winding graveled pathway that climbed the gentle slope and led to the portico of the mansion.
Around them were gay beds of flowers dotting the greensward. Almost hiding the columns of the portico were climbing roses, one bush of the purest white, the other of deep crimson.
As they passed under the porch roof, a handsome and well-preserved lady of middle age appeared at the top of the steps with a welcoming smile. She descended to give them gracious greeting.
“How glad I am to see you, Mr. Willoughby. No one could be more welcome at La Siesta.”
“Thank you,” said Dick with marked chivalry.
“Mrs. Darlington, permit me to present my friend, Lieutenant Munson.”
The introduction over, they ascended the steps together, and passed into a spacious courtyard, with broad verandahs running all around and a fountain playing in the centre. The hostess conducted her visitors to a cosy corner, screened by glass panels from the open air and furnished with rich Persian rugs, divans, cushions, tapestries, carved ebony tabarets, all in oriental fashion. When they were comfortably settled, she opened the conversation.
“Lieutenant, the young ladies of La Siesta are most impatient to meet you. Mr. Willoughby has told us so much about you and yet has been so very dilatory—yes, really you have, Mr. Willoughby—in bringing you over, that we have put down several black marks against his name.”