“I agree with you, Señora. Then perhaps he is in love with her.”
Betty shook her head, and replied:
“Peter Brome doesn’t think anything of women, Señor. At least he never speaks to or of them.”
“Which shows that probably he thinks about them all the more. Well, well, it is no affair of ours, is it? Only I am glad to hear that there is nothing between them, since your mistress ought to marry high, and be a great lady, not a mere merchant’s wife.”
“Yes, Señor. Though Peter Brome is not a merchant, at least by birth, he is high-born, and should be Sir Peter Brome if his father had not fought on the wrong side and sold his land. He is a soldier, and a very brave one, they say, as all might see last night.”
“No doubt, and perhaps would make a great captain, if he had the chance, with his stern face and silent tongue. But, Señora Betty, say, how comes it that, being so handsome,” and he bowed, “you are not married either? I am sure it can be from no lack of suitors.”
Again Betty, foolish girl, flushed with pleasure at the compliment.
“You are right, Señor,” she answered. “I have plenty of them; but I am like my cousin—they do not please me. Although my father lost his fortune, I come of good blood, and I suppose that is why I do not care for these low-born men, and would rather remain as I am than marry one of them.”
“You are quite right,” said d’Aguilar in his sympathetic voice. “Do not stain your blood. Marry in your own class, or not at all, which, indeed, should not be difficult for one so beautiful and charming.” And he looked into her large eyes with tender admiration.
This quality, indeed, soon began to demonstrate itself so actively, for they were now in the fields where few people wandered, that Betty, who although vain was proud and upright, thought it wise to recollect that she must be turning homewards. So, in spite of his protests, she left him and departed, walking upon air.