The girl turned suddenly with mouth wholly supercilious and the light of war in her eyes. Catalina’s face was as impassive as a mask. Miss Holmes walked deliberately towards Over, her mouth relaxing and humor in her eye, but Catalina was too quick for her. She might be an infant in the eyes of this accomplished flirt, but she had imagination and a brain capable under stress of abnormal rapidity of action. She had pulled out her watch and was facing Over.
“The palace closes at twelve—for the morning.” she said, without a quiver of nervousness in her voice. “It wants but a few minutes of twelve, and we never care for luncheon until one. Would you care to go down and make the usual futile attempt at the poste restante—or are you tired?”
“Tired? Let us go, by all means. I have had exactly one letter since I arrived in Spain. There surely is a batch here.”
“I expect rather important ones.” She turned to Miss Holmes. “Good-morning,” she said, gayly. “And thank you so much. We are the hungriest people in the world for knowledge.” And she marshalled the unconscious Over out, he lifting his hat mechanically to Miss Holmes, while admiring the sparkle in Catalina’s eyes and the unusual color in her cheeks.
XXII
As they walked down the Empedrada, the most shadowy of the avenues in the park, Catalina’s ungloved hand came in contact with Over’s and was instantly imprisoned. For a moment she lost herself in the warm magnetism of that contact, wondering somewhat, but filled with a new sense of pleasure. But as she turned her head and met his steady gaze, half humorous, half tender, she made her obedient eyes dance with mischief.
“Beware of the Alhambra,” she said, lightly.
“I am not afraid of the Alhambra,” and although she turned her hand he held it fast.
“Aren’t you?”