In my designs there may have been selfishness; but not one iota in the passion I felt for Mercedes Villa-Señor. It was too romantic to be mean.
In her first glance I read recognition. Only that and nothing more,—at least nothing to gratify me.
But it was soon followed by another, on which I was pleased to place a different interpretation. It was the warm look that had won, and once more seemed to welcome me!
There was a third, and a fourth, timidly stolen through the fringe of the chalé. The very stealth flattered my vanity, and gave a new impulse to my hopes. There was more than one reason for it: the sacredness of the place; the reticence of maiden modesty; and perhaps more than either: the presence of Tia Josefa.
Again our glances met—mine given with all the ardour of a love long restrained.
Once more they met in sweet exchanging—once more, and once more. I had won Mercedes from her worship!
No doubt it was wicked of me to feel joy at the thought; and, no doubt, I deserved the punishment that was in store for me.