Her voice was delicate, but her speech had the peasant accent of Andalusia.
“Were you watching for me?” he asked curiously.
“Yes,” she said. “For who else? Why should I come back after this long time save to see you? Yesterday I was here,” she added, “but you would not see me.”
“Pardon me, I was ill yesterday and did not come downstairs.”
She gazed at him with soft, luminous and unfathomable eyes.
“Have I seen you before?” asked the Duke, endeavouring to place her among the many women who had flitted across his life.
“I used to dance,” she answered, “at the opera in Venice.”
He did not remember her. How could he recall one face from out the whirl of joy and gaiety he had known in Venice?
“You are Spanish?” he asked.