“Nothing.”
“You are unhappy. Tell me, darling.”
“It’s that boy, Jack. He makes me feel—feel—he’s so boastful over those old pack-horses, that we’d turn out in the field to die at home, Carlota?”
“Yes, dear.”
“Everybody but me is mounted.”
“You may have the whole of Connemara. I’ll ride in the big ‘schooner’.”
“I want you not to tell anybody—any single person—but I’m going to get myself a horse, a beauty!”
“How?”
“I’m going to catch a wild horse from a herd I saw. But don’t say one word to the others till I come riding up on its back. I’ll lag behind now and nobody will notice when I slip over the plain.”
“Oh! I hate to have you go! There’s nobody here who is my very own except you, Carlos, heart of my life.”