“But you like the country, don’t you?”
“I do, now. In ten days from this time, I shall no longer care for it—not three straws.”
“Why do you say that, Don Eduardo? There’s an enigma in your words. Please explain them?”
While asking the question, her grey-blue eyes gaze into his, with an expression of searching eagerness—almost anxiety.
“Shall I tell you why, señorita!”
“I have asked you, señor.”
“Well, then, I like California now, because it contains the fairest object on earth—to me the dearest—the woman I love. In ten days or less, by her own showing, she will be away from it; why should I care for it then? Now, Doña Carmen, I’ve given you the key to what you’ve called an enigma.”
“Not quite. Perhaps you will pardon a woman’s curiosity, if I ask the name of the lady who thus controls your likes and dislikes.”
Crozier hesitates, a red spot flushing out upon his cheek. He is about to pronounce a name—perhaps make a speech, the most important he has ever made in his life—because laden with his life’s happiness, or leading to the reverse. What if it should be coldly received?
But no; he cannot be mistaken. Her question, so quaintly, yet so impressively put—surely courts the answer he intends giving? And he gives it without further reflection—her own name, not an added word.