On the evening of the second day, after one of those little poutings, and after Isidora, in anger, had been absent from him nearly two hours, she rejoined Quentin in the boudoir, which was their usual apartment, and where he welcomed her reappearance so warmly, that her face was overspread by happy and beautiful smiles.
Poor Quentin, who was at that age when a young man is apt to slide rather than fall into a regular love fit, was gradually being ensnared.
"The companionship of these few days I shall remember for ever," said he. "You shall indeed be sorrowed for, hermana mia."
"Think only of the present, and not of parting," said she, letting her cheek sink upon his shoulder, as they sat, hand in hand, in the window of the little boudoir, the objects of which were half hidden in the twilight.
Quentin felt his heart beat quickly, and his respiration become thick, but he said with a tender smile—
"Isidora, I am almost afraid of you."
"Afraid—and of me?"
"Yes."
"But why, mi querido?"
"You carry a stiletto," said he, laughing, "and I don't like it."