Again the party was in the patio. Mr. Robles turned to Willoughby.
“I hope Grace and Merle have explained to you that at present I do not entertain. My own fare is of the simplest.”
“Mother is to have luncheon ready at one,” interposed Grace. “I caught the broiled trout myself this morning.”
“You caught them ready broiled, eh?” laughed Munson.
“Oh, you know what I mean,” rejoined Grace, with a pretty little moue.
“Broiled trout!” exclaimed Dick, appreciatively. “Then I think we’ll be hurrying down the hill, senor.” He had recognized with intuitive courtesy that the interview was at an end.
“Is he not delightful?” asked Merle, as their horses started off at a walk. “And you would never guess how sweet and kind he can be.”
“I don’t doubt it,” assented Willoughby. “A polished gentleman, but a man of mystery, isn’t he?”
“Not when you come to know him. A recluse always has his little idiosyncrasies.” As she spoke, she set her pony at a canter down the gentle incline.
After luncheon, Dick found himself tête-à-tête with Mrs. Darlington in the music room. The mystery attaching to the personality of the recluse was still uppermost in his mind. But for the present the music claimed his attention.