“A splendid letter to fall into her mother's hands. Did you sign your real name?”
“No name at all. I wrote in a hurry, and—”
“That's lucky. But even if you had, Lady Vale-Avon couldn't have shown such a letter to the Duke, he's too Spanish—too Moorish, I ought to say. She wouldn't have dared, as she wants him for a son-in-law.”
“That occurred to me.”
“But there aren't many other things she wouldn't dare, to get rid of such a danger as you. If she got the letter—and I'm sure she did—there was your handwriting at her mercy. Supposing she—”
“I know what's in your mind. But I don't think such things are done—out of novels.”
“Oh, aren't they; when people are clever enough? I know of one case myself. And the girl's life was spoiled. Lady Monica's shan't be though, if I can help it.”
“You're taking a great deal for granted,” I said. But I felt as if the radiance of heaven were pouring down upon me, instead of the pensive moonlight.
“Doesn't your heart tell you I'm right?” cried Pilar.
“Yes!” I answered. “Yes, you good angel, it does.”