“She is terrible,” said Quentin with a smile.
“We wanted to bring her here, and then to Paris; but at the last minute she refused to come. Then, you see, she is twenty-two years of age, and most attractive; she could marry very easily, for she has suitors,—rich boys with titles; but she will have none of them. She has too much heart. I tell her that one cannot be like that in life; one must conceal one’s antipathies, and moderate one’s affections, somewhat.... Doing as Remedios does exposes one to much suffering.”
“And yet, isn’t it almost better to deceive one’s self than to find out the truth, at the cost of withering one’s heart little by little?”
“I think it is better to know the truth, Quentin.”
“I don’t know about that. You are as discreet as ever, Rafaela.”
“No, I am much more practical than I was. But you, too, have lost something.”
“It’s true,” said Quentin with a sigh.
At this moment an elegantly dressed gentleman, with a white waistcoat and grey gloves, presented himself.
“Don’t you know each other? My husband ... Quentin, our relative.”
The two men shook hands, and they and Rafaela sat down upon a rock while the children played in the sand. Quentin was astonished at the change in Juan de Dios. The rude, coarse lad had been metamorphosed into a correct and polished gentleman with Parisian manners. There was no reminder of the Cordovese gawk.