At these words the Señora had the spirit to rise and flap the cushion of a shuffling sole on the floor in imitation of a stamp of the foot.
"You cannot go," she said.
For answer the two girls strolled down toward the river, Castaño's bridle over Agueda's arm, Aneta trembling at her new-found courage.
Aneta was a very pretty, pale girl, with bronze-coloured hair, although her complexion was thick and muddy, showing the faint strain of blood which made her, and would always hold her, inferior to the pure Spanish or American type. Her eyes were of a greenish cast, and though small, were sweet and modest. She was perhaps twenty-three at this time. It is sad to have lived one's life at the age of twenty-three.
"I have so many years before me, Agueda," said Aneta.
"Why do you stay here?" asked Agueda.
"Where have I to go?" asked Aneta.
"That is true," assented Agueda.
"My father will not have me back. He says that I should have been smart and married Don Mateo; but I never thought of being smart, 'Gueda; I never thought of anything but how I loved him."
A pang of pity pierced the heart of Agueda, all the stronger because she herself was so secure.