I was not without regret, on discovering that the angel of my imagination was no more than a pretty woman,—a regret strengthened by the remembrance of three distinct promenades made for the express purpose of seeing her—to say nothing of the innumerable vagaries of pleasant conjecture, all exerted in vain.
I felt a little vexed at having thrown away my sword-knot!
I was scarce consoled by the reflection, that my peace of mind was no longer in peril; for I was now almost indifferent to the opinion which the lady might entertain of me. I no longer cared a straw about the reciprocity of a passion the possibility of which had been troubling me. There would be none to reciprocate.
Thus chagrined, and a little by the same thought consoled, I had ceased to stare at the señorita; who certainly stared at me in surprise, and as I fancied, with some degree of indignation.
My rudeness had given her reason; and I could not help perceiving it.
I was about to make the best apology in my power, by hastening away from the spot—my eyes turned to the ground in a look of humiliation—when curiosity, more than aught else, prompted me to raise them once more to the window. I was desirous to know whether my repentance had been understood and acknowledged.
I intended it only for a transitory glance. It became fixed.
Fixed and fascinated! The woman that but six seconds before appeared only pretty—that three days before I had supposed supremely beautiful—was again the angel I had deemed her,—certainly the most beautiful woman I ever beheld!
What could have caused this change? Was it an illusion—some deception my senses were practising upon me?
If the lady saw reason to think me rude before, she had double cause now. I stood transfixed to the spot, gazing upon her with my eyes, my soul—my every thought concentrated in the glance.