“I think, Sarah, that they are all descendants of Spaniards; so they must be Roman Catholics. And I have read that their women are beautiful and witty.”
“My dear Aspatria, nothing goes with Spaniards but gravity and green olives.”
Aspatria was easily persuaded to accept Sarah’s offer; she was indeed very happy in the prospect before her. But Brune was miserable. He had spent a rapturous summer, and it was to end without harvest, or the promise thereof. He could not endure the prospect, and one night he made a movement so decided that Sarah was compelled to set him back a little.
“Were you ever in love, Mrs. Sandys?” poor Brune asked, with his heart filling his mouth.
She looked thoughtfully at him a moment, 206 and then slowly answered: “I once felt myself in danger, and I fled to France. I consider it the finest action of my life.”
Aspatria felt sorry for her brother, and she said warmly: “I think no one falls in love now. Love is out of date.”
Sarah enjoyed her temper. “You are right, dear,” she answered. “Culture makes love a conscious operation. When women are all feeling, they fall in love; when they have intellect and will, they attach themselves only after a critical examination of the object.”
Later, when they were alone, Aspatria took her friend to task for her cruelty: “You know Brune loves you, Sarah; and you do love him. Why make him miserable? Has he presumed too far?”
“No, indeed! He is as adoring and humble as one could wish a future lord and master to be.”
“Well, then?”