Part 8

“I don’t like him, not even as a friend. He’s handsome enough, but I’m sure he has a most horrible temper. I could be afraid of him. I believe I am afraid. And mother—you don’t know her, but—when she makes up her mind that you’re to do a certain thing, you find yourself doing it. That’s one reason I was so glad when you came to-night, and said, ‘The next is our dance,’ in such a determined way. Not only did you take me away from him, but—I felt you’d try to keep me from him, in the end.”

“Try!” I echoed. “I will keep you. Trust me my darling. I’ve been foolish to come to Biarritz under another name. This isn’t Spain; and even a Casa Triana has a right to be here. But luckily not much harm’s done. Through the de la Moles I’ll be presented to Lady Vale-Avon; I’ll tell her that, though compared to the days when my people counted for something in the history of Spain, I’m penniless, still my father left me enough to live on and keep a wife who loves me better than she loves society. I’ll tell Lady Vale-Avon that there are countries in which my name’s well thought of, even in these piping times; that there I’ll do something worth doing—”

“You’ve already done things worth doing,” the girl broke in; “splendid things.”

“I’ve done nothing yet, but I’ll change that. I’ll ask your mother to give me a chance—to wait—”

“No,” she insisted. “Mother would refuse, and everything would be worse than ever.”

“Darling one, they couldn’t be worse. Because now, I’m doing what I oughtn’t to do, although it’s been forced upon me by my love. To deserve you in the faintest degree, I must be open in my dealings. I must speak to Lady Vale-Avon.”

“She’ll never consent.”

“At least I shall have done the right thing. Now we’ve had this talk, now you know that you’re all the world, and heaven besides, to me, even for your mother’s sake you won’t throw me over, will you?”

“No, a thousand times no. I didn’t dream loving would be like this. It would kill me to give you up.”

“Then nothing can part us.”

“It makes me feel brave to hear you say so. But—you don’t know mother.”

“I know myself, and I trust you.”

“I’m so young, and—I’ve never been allowed to have my own way. I’ve always given up.”

“Because you were alone, with no one to help you. Now you have me.”

“That’s true. But—”

“Precious one, there’s no ’but.’”

“I wish I could think so! Yet something seems to say that if you speak to mother, we shall be lost. I love you—but—do let it be kept secret for a while.”

“With what end?”

“I hardly know. Only, I’ve the strongest presentiment it would be best.”

“And I’ve the strongest conviction that not only would it be wrong, but that you wouldn’t respect me if I consented.”

“I beg of you, wait at least till the royalties leave Biarritz before you tell mother, or anyone, who you are.”

I could not help smiling, though rather bitterly. “You’ve heard about my adventure in Barcelona?”

“Yes, from Angèle. I couldn’t bear it if you were to have trouble here.”

“There’s no danger of that.”

“One can’t tell. Circumstances which you don’t foresee might seem to involve you in some plot. Oh, if you love me, wait till the royalties have gone.”

How could I refuse those soft eyes, and those little clasped hands?

I caught the hands and crushed them against my lips, the rosy fingers that smelled of orris, and the polished nails like pink jewels. As I bent over my love, the curtain which covered the doorway waved as in a gust of wind.

Quick as light, Monica snatched away her hands, but it was too late. Carmona was holding back the portière for Lady Vale-Avon.