"What other things are you going to be, Helena?" she asked. "I know that you can be anything you like."
"Well, in the first place, I am going to New York to school,--now, don't look so sad: I've told you twenty times that _I know_ Don Roberto will let you go. Then I'm going to Europe. I'm going to study hard--but not hard enough to spoil my eyes. I'm going to finish off in Paris, and then I'm going to travel. Incidentally, I'm going to learn how to dress, so that when I come back here I'll astonish the natives and be the best-dressed woman in San Francisco; which won't be saying much, to be sure. Then, when I do come back, I'm going to just rule things, and, what is more, make all the old fogies let me. And--_and_--I am going to be the greatest belle this State has ever seen; and that _is_ saying something."
"Of course you will do all that, Helena. It will be so interesting to watch you. Ila and Tiny will never compare with you. Some people are made like that,--some one way and some another, I mean. Shall--shall--you ever marry, Helena?"
"Yes. After I have been engaged a dozen times or so I shall marry a great man."
"Yes; I don't know any, but they are charming in history and memoirs. I'd have a simply gorgeous time in Washington, and ever after I'd have my picture in 'Famous Women' books."
"Shall you marry a president?" asked Magdaléna, deferentially. She was convinced that Helena could marry a reigning sovereign if she wished.
"I haven't made up my mind about that yet. Presidents' wives are usually such dreary-looking frumps I'd hate to be in the same book with them. Besides, most of the presidents don't amount to much. Truthful George must have been a deadly bore. I prefer Benjamin Franklin--although I never could stand that nose--or Clay or Calhoun or Patrick Henry or Webster. They're dead, but there must be lots more. I'll find one for you, too."
Again the dark flush mounted to Magdaléna's hair, as with an alertness of motion unusual to her, she shook her head.
"Aha!" cried the astute Helena, "you've been thinking the matter over, too, have you? Who is he? Tell me."
Magdaléna shook her head again, but slowly this time. Helena embraced and coaxed, but to no effect. Even with her chosen friend, Magdaléna was reticent, not from choice, but necessity. But Helena, whose love was great and whose intuitions were diabolical, leaped to the secret. "I know!" she exclaimed triumphantly. "It's a caballero!"