He had known vaguely that Gallito had a daughter, and he
remembered in the same indefinite way that some one had told him that
she was an actress, but, even so, he could not reconcile this--his mind
sought a simile to express her--this exotic, with Gallito, these two
mountain women, a mountain cabin, and an equally unpretentious home in
the desert. She lay listlessly in her chair, a long and slender shape in
a dull black gown which fell about her in those statuesque folds which
all drapery assumed immediately she donned it; beneath it showed her
feet in black satin slippers and the gleam of the satin seemed repeated
in her blue-black hair. Her cheek was unwontedly pale. A monotone she
appeared, half-within and half-without the zone of the firelight; but
the individuality of her could not be thus subdued. It found expression
in the concentration of light and color focused in the splendid rings
which sparkled on the long, brown fingers of both her hands.
Her narrow eyes met his sombrously. On either side it was a glance of
curiosity, of scrutiny. She, as usual, made no effort to begin a
conversation, and he, searching for a polite commonplace, said
presently:
"Have you ever been in Colina before?"
"Often, but not in the last two years," she answered tonelessly, "not
since you've been here, I guess. I hate the mountains."
"I have been here nearly two years," he vouchsafed, "and I feel as if I
would never go away. But you live in the desert, don't you?"
"Sometimes, that is, when I'm not out on the road.
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