So, one day, he offered his salute in like wise; but he did it when she was alone; for something within (perhaps a guilty conscience) whispered that it might be hardly politic to make the proffer in her father's presence: however, to his astonishment, he received a prompt though quiet rebuff.
“No, sir; you should know that my cheek is not for you.”
“Why,” said he, stifling his anger, “it seems free enough to every counter-jumper in the town!”
Was it love, or simple innocence, which made her answer apologetically?
“True, Don Guzman; but they are my equals.”
“And I?”
“You are a nobleman, sir; and should recollect that you are one.”
“Well,” said he, forcing a sneer, “it is a strange taste to prefer the shopkeeper!”
“Prefer?” said she, forcing a laugh in her turn; “it is a mere form among us. They are nothing to me, I can tell you.”
“And I, then, less than nothing?”