“Well, no—not exactly afraid—still—”
She speaks hesitatingly, and in disjointed phrases, her head drooping down. Then a quick change comes over her countenance, and, bending closer to the other, she asks, “Can I trust you with a confidence, Iñez?”
“Why need you ask that? You’ve already trusted me with one—in telling me you love Don Eduardo.”
“Now I give you another—by telling you I once loved Don Francisco.”
“Indeed!”
“No, no!” rejoins Carmen quickly, and as half-repenting the avowal. “Not loved him—that’s not true, I only came near it.”
“And now?”
“I hate him!”
“Why, may I ask? What has changed you?”
“That’s easily answered. When I first met him I was younger than now; a mere girl, full of girlish fancies—romantic, as called. I thought him handsome; and in a sense so he is. In person, you’ll admit, he’s all man may, or need, be—a sort of Apollo, or Hyperion. But in mind—ah, Iñez, that man is a very Satyr—in heart and soul a Mephistopheles.”