“All right,” he said; “I shan’t fall in love.”
“It won’t be any good if you do,” she said. “Carlotta is to be married from here in less than a month. By the way, you’ll have to come to the wedding, heretic or no.”
“Who is she marrying?” he asked; not that he cared.
“Don Manuel.”
“A sort of local buck?”
“You would call him that.”
“Has he a surname?”
“Yes. Encinitas.”
“I thought that was a province.”
“So it is: he owns most of it.”