"Very little."
"What am I to do?"
"Paint the Presidential House," said I. "It wants it badly, and all Santa Paula will be very sure that you wouldn't spend money in paint if you meant to run away."
"That's a good idea," said he, and he sat down at once and began to figure out the expense. "A couple of hundred dollars will do it."
"Not well," said I.
"We don't want it done well," said Juan. "Two men on a plank will, be enough. A couple of hundred dollars is too much. Half that will be quite sufficient. By the way"--and he sat with his pen poised--"just run after--her--and tell her that Vandeleur is landing to-morrow at Trinidad. I invented some business for him there."
He bent down over the desk. His back was towards the door. As I turned the handle, someone was opening it from the other side. It was Olivia Calavera.
"I came back," she said, with the colour mantling in her face. "You see, I am going away to-morrow--and I hadn't said 'Good-bye.'"
Juan must have heard her voice.
"Please go and give that message," he said sharply. "And shut the door! I don't want to be disturbed."
Olivia drew back quickly. I was amazed to see that she was hurt.
"His message is for you," I said severely. "Harry Vandeleur lands at Trinidad to-morrow."
"Thank you," she said slowly; she turned away and walked as slowly down the passage. "Goodbye," she said, with her back towards me.
"I will see you off to-morrow, Señorita," I said; and she turned back to me.
"No," she said gently. "Don't do that! We will say 'Good-bye' here."
She gave me her hand--she had been on the point of going without even doing that. "Thank you very much," she added, and she walked rather listlessly away. She left me with an uneasy impression that her thanks were not very sincere. I am bound to admit that Olivia puzzled me that night. To extract the proposal of marriage from Ballester was within the rules of the game and good play into the bargain. But to come back again as she had done, was not quite fair. However, as I watched her go, I thought that I would keep my bewilderment to myself. I have never asked Harry Vandeleur, for instance, whether he could explain it. I went back to the study.
"I think fifty dollars will be ample," said Ballester, still figuring on his paper. "Has she gone?"
"She is going," said I. He rose from his chair, broke off a rose from a bowl of flowers which, on this night only, decorated the room. Then he opened the window and leaned out. Olivia, I reckoned, would be just at this moment stepping into the carriage. He tossed the rose down and drew back quickly out of sight.
"Shall it be green paint, your Excellency?" I asked.
His Excellency, I regret to say, swore loudly.
"Never in this world!" said he.
I had left the door open. The music of a languorous and melting waltz filled the room.
"I do loathe music!" cried Juan Ballester violently. It was the nearest approach to a sentimental remark that I had ever heard him make.
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