"Don't do that. Can't you see we must make haste while the curtain is down?"
"I do not see. I am strolling in search of the cool air." She bowed and smiled at some passing friends. She seemed very careless, very flippant. She was not at all the impetuous, mischievous Chiquita he had met in the woods.
"See here!" he said, soberly. "We can't go on this way. Now that I've met your father, I'm going to explain my intentions to him, and ask his permission to call on you."
"We have a—proverb, senor, 'Ir por lana, y volver trasquilado,' which means, 'Take heed lest you find what you do not seek.' Do not be impetuous."
"There's only one thing I'm seeking."
"My father is a stern man. In his home he is entirely a Spaniard, and if he learned how we met, for instance"-even under the electric light he saw her flush-"he would create a terrible scene." She paused in her walk and leaned over the stone balustrade, staring out across the ink-black harbor.
"Trust me! I shan't tell him."
"There are so many reasons why it is useless."
"Name one."
"One!" She shrugged lightly. "In the first place I care nothing for you. Is not that enough?"