“I’ll bring it to you this afternoon. Give it to her and tell me how she receives it. She’ll not answer me, I know she’ll not answer me. But you’ll hand it to her, won’t you?”
“Of course. Don’t worry.”
Surely enough, that very afternoon Roberto walked again through the falling snow, Manuel ran down, took the letter and dashed back into the house.
At that moment Kate was amusing herself with her wardrobe. She had a thousand gew-gaws stored in a number of little boxes; in some, medallions; in others, small prints, chromographs, gifts from her schoolmates or the family. Her prayer books were filled with little pictures and souvenirs.
Manuel, with Roberto’s missive in his pocket, drew near to the girl like a criminal. La Nena exhibited all her wealth to him; he swelled with pride. Manuel scarcely dared to touch the medallions, the jewels, the thousand things that Kate had treasured up.
“My uncle gave me this chain,” said the schoolgirl. “This ring comes from my grandfather. This pansy I picked in Hyde Park, when I was at my uncle’s in London.”
Manuel listened to her without a word, ashamed to have the letter in his pocket. La Nena continued showing new things to him. She still preserved her childhood playthings; in her wardrobe everything was classified with the utmost precision; each article had its place. In some of the books she pressed pansies and other flowers, afterwards copying them and filling in the sketch with water-colours.
Manuel made two or three attempts to bring the conversation round to Roberto, but his courage failed him.
All at once, after much clearing of his throat, he stammered:
“D-do you know ...?”