Rafaela laughed the laugh of a young woman utterly lacking in coquetry; Remedios looked at Quentin with her great, black eyes, waiting, perhaps, for a confirmation of the gardener’s compliment.
Rafaela removed her mantilla, folded it, stuck two large pins in it, and gave it to the maid; then she smoothed her hair with her long, delicate-fingered white hand.
“I have a favour to ask of you,” she said to Quentin.
“Of me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Command me: I shall consider myself most happy to be your slave.”
Rafaela laughed musically and said:
“Goodness me! How quickly you take your ground!”
“I am not exaggerating; I am saying what I feel.”
“Then be careful, for you seem to me to be a trifle restless for a slave, and I may have to put you in irons.”