“You are very provocative.”
She longed for the mantilla which had given her such confidence in Toledo, but swept him a glance from the veiled splendor of her eyes.
“I don’t know whether I mind having my hand held or not.”
But if this were diplomacy it failed; he tightened his clasp.
“I am not sure that I know you.”
“I have heard you say that a good many times. You are not very original.”
“I was thinking of to-day, particularly.”
“Why to-day?” The wondering expression held her eyes. “I have never felt more natural, nor happy. I feel as if the mere blood in my veins had turned to that golden mist we saw on the vega this morning. I adore Spain!”
She spoke the last words in such a passion of relief that he brought his face closer to hers.
“I believe I’d give my soul to kiss you,” he whispered. There was no humor in his eyes, and he looked the born lover; and the glades of the “sacred grove” looked the very bower of lovers. But Catalina’s moment of response was over. Humiliated and furious with herself, she vowed on the spot that she would never again lift an eyelash to fascinate him. Love seemed lying in the dust, rocked back and forth by her experimental foot. He should come to her of his own free will, or go whence he came—with Miss Holmes, if he chose. She would be loved and wooed ideally, or die an old maid. But to bait—to manœuvre—to cross swords with a rival! For the moment she hated Over, and he might have departed on the instant with her blessing.