“Rafaela?”
“Yes.”
“To whom?”
“To Juan de Dios.”
Quentin felt as if all his nerves had let go at once.
“The Marquis is getting worse every day,” the gardener continued, “so he thought the Señorita ought to get married as soon as possible.”
“And she.... What does she say?”
“Nothing, at present.”
“But will she oppose it?”
“How do I know?”