Crozier, looking abroad over the ocean, says—
“I shall ere long be upon it.” He accompanies the speech with a sigh.
“And I, too,” rejoins Carmen, in a tone, and with accompaniment, singularly similar.
“How soon do you think of leaving California?” queries the young officer.
“Oh, very soon! My father is already making arrangements, and hopes being able to set sail in a week, if not less. Indeed, he has this day been to see about taking passages to Panama. That’s why he was not at home to receive you; leaving me to do the honours of the house, and apologise for his seeming rudeness.”
For that not much apology was needed, thinks Crozier, who is for a time silent, not knowing what next to say. Love, reputed eloquent, is oft the reverse; and though opening the lips of a landsman, will shut those of men who follow the sea. There is a remarkable modesty about the latter more than the former—in the presence of women. Why, I cannot tell; only knowing that as a rule it is so; and certainly in the case of Edward Crozier.
In time he gets over his embarrassment, so far as to venture upon an interrogatory, not very pertinent—
“I suppose, Doña Carmen, you are very happy at the prospect of returning to Spain?”
“No, indeed,” answers Don Gregorio’s daughter. “On the contrary, it makes me rather melancholy. I love dear California, and could live in it all my life. Couldn’t you?”
“Under certain circumstances, I could.”