Diana’s curiosity was keenly whetted.
She saw something of a beautiful mystery in the veiled figure of the unknown lady with whom I had come aboard.
Perhaps there was an indefinite something about her carriage that suggested vague familiarity which she could not for the life of her place.
On my part, I was grimly determined to give her no satisfaction.
Hildegarde had begged me to keep her identity secret for the present, and while I did not quite understand why she should wish this, I was perfectly willing to comply.
If Diana discovered the truth, it would have to be through other means.
Hence, in telling of my adventures I carefully avoided all reference to the lady save as the señora who was in trouble, and whom Robbins and myself had assisted to escape from those who detained her against her will. In accomplishing this result, I had to run the gamut of her questions, and I am afraid yarn a little; but really she had no business to be so importunate, and concern herself so materially about my affairs.
She laughingly declared that the fact of her having once been an old flame of mine, and now a dignified matron—Heaven save the mark!—should entitle her to some consideration, and account in a measure for the deep interest she took in my welfare.
Luckily I was feeling all right, save for a symptom of “swelled head,” which, under the circumstances, was allowable.
Indeed, I could even look back over the events of the night with more or less complacency, believing that I had borne myself well.