She turned away and looked across to the hills at the other side of the valley, a rugged outline against the sky.
“But I know all that,” she said softly, “without being told.”
A queer smile passed over his sunburnt face, as if she had unintentionally and innocently made things more difficult for him.
“And,” she continued, “it is--oh, so lonely.”
She made an almost imperceptible little movement towards him. Like the child that she was, she was yearning for sympathy and comfort.
“I know--I know,” he said.
Outward circumstance was rather against Fitz. A clear, odorous Spanish night, the young moon rising behind the pines, a thousand dreamy tropic scents filling the air. And Eve, half tearful, wholly lovable, standing before him, innocently treading on dangerous ground, guilelessly asking him to love her.
She, having grown almost to womanhood, pure as the flowers of the field, ignorant, a child, knew nothing of what she was doing. She merely gave way to the instinct that was growing within her--the instinct that made her turn to this man, claiming his strength, his tenderness, his capability, as given to him for her use and for her happiness.
“You must not avoid me,” she said. “Why do you do it? Have I done anything you dislike? I have no one to speak to, no one who understands, but you. There is the padre, of course--and nurse; but they do not understand. They are--so old! Let me stay here with you until it is time to go to bed, will you?”
“Of course,” he answered quietly. “If you care to. To-morrow I should think we shall hear from your uncle. He may come by the boat sailing from Barcelona to-morrow night. It will be a good thing if he does; you see, I must get back to my ship.”
“You said she would not be ready for sea till next month.”