“She has taught me the extent of my philosophy, so I forgive her—and ignore her existence.”
He made no reply, for he saw the Moultons not three yards away. They were in the Capilla Mayor, their necks craned in a vain attempt to register a permanent impression of the gorgeous coloring, the phalanxes of saints, the riotous beauty of carving on wall and arch and tomb. While he hesitated, Mr. Moulton brought down his tired eyes and they rested on Catalina. He gave a sharp exclamation of pleasure and hurried forward, his hand out-stretched. Catalina had included him in her wrath, but she forgave him instantly, and simultaneously conceived a stroke of revenge. Mrs. Moulton and Jane retreated, but Lydia ran to Catalina and kissed her.
“Where have you been?” she cried. “We have been just wild. How perfectly sweet you look in that mantilla!”
Catalina explained, and Mr. Moulton drew a long sigh of relief. “I shall never worry about you again, my dear child. And now tell me what you wish to do. I trust you will become reconciled—”
“I shall remain in Spain perhaps for some months—I have cancelled my passage. But I shall like to see you again. Will you come to the Casa Villéna immediately after luncheon? I have a little plan to propose to you.”
“Certainly I will—but is your decision irrevocable?”
“Quite. Perhaps I shouldn’t keep you now. And my duenna must be waiting for me.”
She nodded and turned away, but Lydia followed and took her arm.
“I can go back to the hotel with Captain Over,” she said to her father, and the two girls walked down the nave with heads together, oblivious of the half-amused, half-sulky man in their wake.
“Well, what of Jesus Maria?”