"Yes," said Ashby, looking at her intently.
Dolores returned his look with another, the intensity of which was wonderful to Ashby. He seemed to look into the depths of her soul, and the lustrous eyes which were fastened on his appeared as though they strove to read his inmost heart. Her manner, however, was light and bantering, and it was with a merry smile that she went on:
"Ah! so I have changed? And how, señor—for the better?"
"No, and yes," said Ashby, drinking in her dark, deep, liquid glances. "In the first place, you could not possibly be better or more beautiful than you used to be; but, in the second place, you are more womanly."
"But I am not yet seventeen, señor."
"I know," said Ashby, of course.
"And you have not yet asked after the dear one—the mamma, who loves you so," said Dolores, in rather an inconsequential way.
"I was thinking of you, so that all other thoughts were driven out of my head."
"That's pretty," said Dolores; "but do you not want to hear about the dear mamma?"
"Of course. I shall love her and revere her till I die. Did she not save my life? Was she not a mother to me in my sorest need? And you, Dolores—"