The man who fought the hardest, he felt, would in this case win that for
which he fought. For he felt in his heart, that Teresita was only a
pretty little animal, the primitive woman who would surrender to
strength; and that he would win in the end who simply refused to yield
before her coquetries.
With a quick, impatient gesture he threw his cigarette into the coals,
kicked viciously a lazily smoking brand which sent up a little blaze and
a spurt of sparks that died almost immediately to dull coals again.
"Love's like that," he muttered pessimistically, standing up and
stretching his arms mechanically. "And the winner loses in the end;
maybe not always, but he will in this case. Poor old Jack! After all,
she ain't worth it. If she was--" His chin went down for a minute or
two, while he stared again at the fire. "If she was, I'd--But she ain't.
Love's worth--what is love worth, anyway?"
He did not answer the question with any degree of positiveness, and he
went to bed wishing that he had never seen the valley of Santa Clara.
CHAPTER XIX
ANTICIPATION
To give a clear picture of the preparations for that fiesta, one should
be able to draw with strokes as swift as the horses that galloped up and
down the valley at the behest of riders whose minds titillated with
whatever phase of the fiesta appealed to them most; and paint with
colors as vivid as were the dreams of the women, from the peonas in the
huts to the senoritas and senoras murmuring behind the shelter of their
vines.
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