"I congratulate you, cousin."
"In truth, what do I want for here? Doña María and her daughter love me. They lavish kindness and attention, and I have a small circle of devoted friends—can I desire anything else in this world, where real happiness cannot exist?"
"I envy your philosophy, cousin. Still my duty as a relation—and a friend," he added, hesitatingly, "oblige me to remind you that this situation—happy though it is—can only be precarious. You cannot hope to pass your life in the bosom of this charming family. A thousand unforeseen events may happen at any moment to cause a violent separation."
"That is true, cousin," she murmured in a low and trembling voice.
"You know," he continued, "how little it is permitted in this unhappy country to reckon on the future. A young lady of your age, and especially of your beauty, cousin, is fatally exposed to a thousand dangers, from which it is almost impossible for her to escape. I am your relative, if not your nearest, certainly the most devoted to you. You do not doubt this, I hope?"
"Oh, Heaven forbid, cousin! Believe, on the contrary, that my heart retains a profound gratitude for the numberless services you have rendered me."
"Only gratitude?" he said significantly. "The word is rather vague, cousin."
She raised her charming limpid eyes to him. "What other word would you have me employ?" she asked.
"I am wrong, forgive me," he continued. "The fact is, the situation in which we stand to each other at this moment is so singular, cousin, that I really do not know how to express myself when addressing you. I am afraid of displeasing you."
"No, cousin; you have nothing of the sort to fear," she answered, with a smile. "You are my friend, and from that title you have the same right to say anything to me, as I have to hear it."