The word was hardly audible, but the Mexican drew the tiny hand into his arm and led her from the salon, out upon the piazza, and thence into the moonlit garden, halting at an arbor.
“Do you know that I can tell who you are, señorita?” the man asked.
He saw the start that she gave at his words, and then she asked:
“Who am I?”
“The beautiful Miss De Latour, whom all the men in the city are wildly in love with.”
“How do you know?”
“Because from the first moment I saw you I loved you, and I have time and again sought to win a glance from you, and only yesterday did you favor me with a smile, as I rode by your house; or was I mistaken, and the smile but the reflex of some pleasant thought?”
“Señor Marvin, you are mistaken, for I am not Celeste de Latour, the loveliest and richest girl in the city.”
“Not Miss De Latour? Surely you are not deceiving me?”
“No, you are deceiving me, señor, in telling another that you love her, for I am your wife, Austin Marvin!”