‘You will doubtless wish to pack your portmanteau,’ said the General rather breathlessly, as he hurried along with small steps beside Conyngham.
‘Yes,’ answered the Englishman ingenuously, ‘yes, of course.’
‘Then I will not detain you,’ said General Vincente. ‘I have affairs at headquarters. We meet at dinner, of course.’
He waved a little salutation with his whip and took a side turning.
The sun had not set when Conyngham with a beating heart made his way through the house into the garden. He had never been so serious about anything in his life. Indeed, his life seemed only to have begun in that garden. Estella was there. He saw her black dress and mantilla through the trees, and the gleam of her golden hair made his eyes almost fierce for the moment.
‘I am going to-morrow morning,’ he said bluntly when he reached her where she sat in the shade of a mimosa.
She raised her eyes for a moment—deep velvet eyes with something in them that made his heart leap within his breast.
‘And I love you, Estella,’ he added. ‘You may be offended—you may despise me—you may distrust me. But nothing can alter me. I love you—now and ever.’
She drew a deep breath and sat motionless.
‘How many women does an Englishman love at once?’ she asked coldly at length.