“We’ll have afternoon tea,” suggested Mrs. Darlington. “And of course you two young men will stay for dinner.”
Both uttered a simultaneous protest—they were only in riding clothes. But Mrs. Darlington made short work of the argument, and touched a pushbutton by her side. A maid responded, the extra covers for dinner were ordered, and meanwhile tea was to be sent on to the verandah. Pleasant small talk succeeded, the lieutenant being called upon for his first impressions of California.
Of a sudden Grace exclaimed in a voice, half of joy, half of surprise:
“Why, here comes Mr. Robles!”
Advancing along the verandah, hat in hand, was a man of striking presence and dignity, perhaps fifty years of age. His jet black hair was streaked with gray, the full beard almost verging on whiteness. Olive complexion and brown eyes, together with the courtly manner of his salutation, indicated the thoroughbred Castilian.
He bowed and raised to his lips the hand of his hostess. To Grace he paid the same deference. Next he turned to Dick Willoughby and extended his hand.
“I have met Mr. Willoughby. I am pleased, sir, to see you again.”
Then his eyes rested on Lieutenant Munson, and Mrs. Darlington presented the young army officer.
“And where, I pray, is Miss Merle?” Mr. Robles finally asked, glancing around.
“That’s what I want to know,” blurted out Dick. Then he reddened just a little.