“Your words will answer as well for a Biscayan lady—by name Carmen Montijo.”
“Suppose I admit it, and say yes? Well; I will. There is one in yonder ship who has very much interested me. Nay, more; I admire—ay, love him! You see I’m not ashamed to confess what the world affects to consider a weakness. We of the Celtic race don’t keep secrets as you of the further South; half Moors, as you are. For all, sobrina, you haven’t kept yours; though you tried heard enough. I saw from the first you were smitten with that young English officer, who has hair the exact colour of a carrot!”
“It isn’t anything of the kind. His hair is of a much more becoming hue than that of the other English officer, who’s taken your fancy, tia.”
“Nothing to compare with it. Look at this. There’s a curl; one of the handsomest that ever grew on the head of man! Dark and glossy, as the coat of the fur-seal. Beautiful! I could kiss it over, and over again!”
While speaking, she does so.
“And look at this!” cries the other, also drawing forth a lock of hair, and displaying it in the sunlight, “See how it shines—like tissue of gold! Far prettier than that you’ve got, and better worth kissing.”
Saying which she imitates the example set her, by raising the tress to her lips, and repeatedly kissing it.
“So, so, my innocent!” exclaims Carmen, “you’ve been stealing too?”
“As yourself!”
“And, I suppose, you’ve given him a love-lock in exchange?”