“Gracias,” responds Isabel. “That is about the extent of my Spanish, General.”
“Ah, but you will learn readily. It is simple. Hist! a gentleman approaches. It were well if we be seen little together to-night. Until the morrow then, adios.”
Gen. Murillo moves off toward the swirl of dancers and Isabel surveys with an air of recognition a gentleman in the costume of Don Caesar de Bazan, who has descended to the arcade by the north stairway and is coming slowly toward her. Don Caesar looks curiously after the departing form of the Spaniard; then, dropping into a chair beside Isabel, he tosses off his mask and asks carelessly: “Well, my dear Isabel, when do you leave for Cuba?”
“For Cuba?” repeats Mrs. Harding in simulated surprise.
“Exactly. After a glance at the gentleman who just left you I do not need to be enlightened as to the diplomatic duties to which you alluded last night.”
“Well, Phillip, I have few secrets that you do not share,” Isabel says sweetly; “I leave for Cuba to-morrow.”
“So soon,” he murmurs courteously.
“The sooner the better. Every day I am near you makes eventual separation the harder. I know that you care nothing for me,” she goes on, her cheeks flushed crimson. “Don’t interrupt me,” as Van Zandt seeks to interpose a protest. “I know that you care nothing for me, not in the way I would have you feel. I have your friendship, yes, beyond that I am nothing to you. And I—I love you, Phillip—love you as I never expected to love a man. I make the avowal without shame, for I know there is no possibility of a change in your sentiments toward me. And I am going away—to-morrow,” half sobs the woman, as she covers her face with her hands.
Van Zandt lays his hand upon Isabel’s head and smooths the dark tresses sympathetically. She pushes the hand away.
“Courage! Tears ill become a diplomat,” declares Van Zandt. “This is a dreary world. We seldom attain our heart’s desire, even though the object we seek be a lowly one. Will you have some wine?” Isabel shakes her head. She has dried her eyes and has relapsed into an apathetic melancholy.