"You can't manage it. Come, then; go along, and leave it to me. I will speak to mama; but you must write a letter to Cecilia."
"Oh, my God! Ventura!" he exclaimed, full of anguish.
"Then what do you want—say?" asked the girl, now in a rage. "Do you think I am going to be made a plaything of?"
"If we could only manage without this letter," returned Gonzalo humbly. "You can't imagine the effort it will be for me. Would it not do if I left off coming to the house for some days?"
"Yes, yes; be off and don't come back!" she replied, taking a step to the door.
But the youth caught her by the tresses of her hair.
"Come, don't be cross, beautiful one; you well know that you have completely conquered and fascinated me, and that I will obey your every command, even to casting myself into the sea. I only told you my opinion—if you don't like it, I have nothing more to say. I only want to avoid hurting Cecilia."
"It is like your conceit!" exclaimed the girl, without turning round. "Do you think Cecilia is going to die of grief?"
"If she is not hurt, so much the better, and I shall be saved remorse."
"Cecilia is cold; she can not love or hate much. She is very good, and does not know what selfishness is; but you will always find her the same, neither happy nor sad. She is incapable of either giving or taking offense; at least, if she does take it, nobody knows it. What are you doing?" she added, turning round quickly.