‘Is it politics?’ asked the lady, with a hasty glance round the room.
‘No, it is scarcely politics; but why do you ask? You are surely too wise, Madame, to take part in such. It is a woman’s mission to please—and when it is so easy!’
He waved his thin white hand in completion of a suggestion which made his hearer bridle her stout person.
‘No, no,’ she whispered, glancing over her shoulder at the door. ‘No; it is my daughter. Ah! señor, you can scarce imagine what it is to live upon a volcano!’
And she pointed to the oaken floor with her fan. Sir John deemed it wise to confine his display of sympathy to a glance of the deepest concern.
‘No,’ he said; ‘it is merely a personal matter. I have a communication to make to my friend General Vincente or to his daughter.’
‘To Estella?’
‘To the Señorita Estella.’
‘Do you think her beautiful? Some do, you know. Eyes—I admit—yes, lovely.’
‘I admire the señorita exceedingly.’