"And you, my dear Clara, do you know nothing—have you discovered nothing?"
"Yes," she replied, looking at him fixedly, "I have made a horrible discovery."
"You terrify me, Clara; what do you mean? Explain yourself."
"Not at present, my dear Sancho, not at present, for the time has not arrived; so be patient. You know that I never had any secrets from you, for you alone have always loved me. I wrote to you to come that I might reveal this secret to you: in three days at the latest you shall know all, and then—"
"Then?" he said, looking at her intently.
"Then you shall measure, as I do, the immense depth of the gulf into which I have fallen; but enough of this subject for the present, I am suffering terribly, so let us talk of something else."
"Most willingly, my dear Clara; but what shall we talk about?"
"Well, whatever you like, dear, the rain, the fine weather, your journey, or anything of that sort."
Don Sancho understood that his sister was suffering from extreme nervous excitement, and that he would aggravate her already very serious condition by not acceding to her wishes; hence he made no objection, but readily yielded to her caprice.
"Well then," he said, "my dear Clara, since that is the case, I will take advantage of the opportunity to ask you to give me some information."