“Miss De Haro,” said Thatcher, with sudden, honest earnestness, advancing with outstretched hands, “believe me I am sincerely delighted, overjoyed, again to meet—”
She had, however, quickly retreated as he approached, ensconcing herself behind the high back of a large antique chair, on the cushion of which she knelt. I regret to add also that she slapped his outstretched fingers a little sharply with her inevitable black fan as he still advanced.
“We are not in California. It is Washington. It is after midnight. I am a poor girl, and I have to lose—what you call—'a character.' You shall sit over there,”—she pointed to the sofa,—“and I shall sit here;” she rested her boyish head on the top of the chair; “and we shall talk, for I have to speak to you, Don Royal.”
Thatcher took the seat indicated, contritely, humbly, submissively. Carmen's little heart was touched. But she still went on over the back of the chair.
“Don Royal,” she said, emphasizing each word at him with her fan, “before I saw you,—ever knew of you,—I was a child. Yes, I was but a child! I was a bold, bad child;—and I was what you call a—a—'forgaire'!”
“A what?” asked Thatcher, hesitating between a smile and a sigh.
“A forgaire!” continued Carmen demurely. “I did of myself write the names of ozzer peoples;” when Carmen was excited she lost the control of the English tongue; “I did write just to please myself;—it was my onkle that did make of it money;—you understand, eh? Shall you not speak? Must I again hit you?”
“Go on,” said Thatcher laughing.
“I did find out, when I came to you at the mine, that I had forged against you the name of Micheltorena. I to the lawyer went, and found that it was so—of a verity—so! so! all the time. Look at me not now, Don Royal;—it is a 'forgaire' you stare at.”
“Carmen!”