“Are you sure of this?”
“Yes, dearest, quite sure.”
“You make a mistake.”
“Let me be mistaken, and believe me I shall be glad to be mistaken.”
“Unhappy devotee!”
“Why unhappy?”
“Nothing, nothing. I may be too long, I shall endanger . . . let us say no more about it. I will stay.”
I went out more pained with her state than my own, and I felt that the best thing I could do would be to forget her, “for,” said I to myself, “even if I do enjoy her once, Sunday will come again; she will confess, repent, and I shall have to begin all over again. She confessed her love, and flatters herself that she will be able to subdue it—a foolish hope, which could only exist in a mind under the dominion of prejudice.”
I came home at noon, and Don Diego dined with me; his daughter did not appear till the dessert. I begged her to sit down, politely, but coldly. Her father asked her jestingly if I had paid her a visit in the night.
“I never suspected Don Jaime of such a thing,” she replied, “and I only objected out of shyness.”