"Francisca," said the Professor. "Francisca—Francisca!"
This was the only explanation he ever made, but in fact it was a perfect statement of the case.
If it needed any elaboration it might be held to receive it when Francisca, stooping—long afterward—to recover the abused lace, picked up with it something else.
"What is this?" she said, a little puzzled.
"Oh, that," said the Professor, "that is Miss Dysart's ticket! She is going away to-morrow."
"Ah!" said Francisca only.
"Francisco is to take it to her, and by the way, where is the dear lad?" He made a movement to rise, but Francisca stopped him, raising his hand in hers.
Out on the twilight air already heavy with sweet odors, came floating the sound of a guitar, low, but inexpressibly joyous and tender.
Francisca's eyes filled with tears, but "Caro Francisco!" she only said.