“I was furious, first because they told me that you once had a sweetheart whom you loved; and second, because they say that you are going to get married.”
Rafaela, who perhaps did not expect such a brusque way of putting the matter, dropped her sewing and rose to her feet.
“You, too, are a child,” she murmured at length. “What can one do with what is gone by? I had a sweetheart, it is true, for six years—and I was in love with him.”
“Yes; I know it,” said Quentin furiously.
“If he acted badly,” Rafaela continued, as if talking to herself, “so much the worse for him. There is no recollection of my childhood that is not connected with him. In his company I went to the theatre for the first time, and to my first dance. What little happiness I have had in my life, came to me during the time I knew him. My mother was living then; my family was considered wealthy.... Yet, if that man were free, and wished to marry me now, I would not marry him; not from spite, no—but because to me he is a different man.... I say this to you because I feel I know you, and because you are like my sister Remedios: you demand an exclusive affection.”
“And don’t you?” demanded Quentin brusquely.
“I do too; perhaps not as much as you; but neither do I believe that I could share my affection with another. I must not deceive you in this. You would be capable of being jealous of the past.”
“Probably,” said Quentin.
“I know it. I don’t believe that I have flirted with you; have I?”
Rafaela spoke at some length. She had that graciousness of those persons whose emotions are not easily stirred. Her heart needed time to feel affection; an impulse of the moment could not make her believe herself in love.