“Yes, indeed; who?”
“I say she is not my sweetheart—Perhaps——”
“Finish, man—perhaps what?”
“She may come to be——”
“And, who is the girl? Do I know her?”
“Very well.”
While Antón was silent, Doña Socorro thought over the riddle, and, after some minutes, declared:
“I’m sure I don’t know, child; give me a clew.”
“She is your relative.”
The lady passed over in her thought, to whom Antón could allude, and could not imagine which one of her relatives, the poor and obscure youth presumed to win. Suddenly, like a flash, came the remembrance of the words, which he had pronounced when she invited him to remain at the party; but it was a thing so unheard of, so unthinkable, that she dared not mention the name, but desired to assure herself, indirectly, that she was not on a false trail.