She was resplendent in a
stunning wash-dress and, evidently, was not prepared for the sight of
Farrel standing with his back to the black adobe fireplace. She paused
abruptly and stared at him frankly. He bowed.
"Good-morning, Miss Parker. I trust that, despite the excitement of the
early part of the night, you have enjoyed a very good rest."
"Good-morning, Don Miguel. Yes; I managed rather well with my sleep, all
things considered."
"You mustn't call me 'Don Miguel,'" he reminded her, with a faint smile.
"I am only Don Miguel to the Indians and _pelados_ and a few of my
father's old Spanish friends who are sticklers for etiquette. My father
was one of the last dons in San Marcos County, and the title fitted him
because he belonged to the generation of dons. If you call me, 'Don
Miguel,' I shall feel a little bit alien."
"Well, I agree with you, Mr. Farrel. You are too young and modern for
such an antiquated title. I like 'Don Mike' better."
"There is no further need for that distinguishing appellation," he
reminded her, "since my father's death."
She looked at him for several seconds and said:
"I'm glad to see you've gotten a firm grip on yourself so soon. That
will make it ever so much nicer for everybody concerned. Mother and
father are fearfully embarrassed."
"I shall endeavor to relieve them of their embarrassment the instant I
meet them.
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