‘By showing me the letter you wrote to Julia Barenna,’ she said.
‘I cannot do that.’
‘No,’ she said significantly. A woman fighting for her own happiness is no sparing adversary.
‘Will nothing else than the sight of that letter satisfy you, señorita?’
Her profile was turned towards him—delicate and proud, with the perfect chiselling of outline that only comes with a long descent, and bespeaks the blood of gentle ancestors. For Estella Vincente had in her veins blood that was counted noble in Spain—the land of a bygone glory.
‘Nothing,’ she answered. ‘Though the question of my being satisfied is hardly of importance. You asked me to trust you, and you make it difficult by your actions. In return I ask a proof, that is all.’
‘Do you want to trust me?’
He had come a little closer to her, and was grave enough now.
‘Why do you ask that?’ she inquired in a low voice.
‘Do you want to trust me?’ he asked, and it is to be supposed that he was able to detect an infinitesimal acquiescent movement of her head.