Leith had never come so near having a downright affection for the light-headed individual in his life.
"I never had the pleasure of an acquaintance with Senorita Meriaz, though I have met her," he said, nonchalantly; "but I am not fond of her father."
"It seemed almost as if your dislike extended to all things Mexican," said Carlita, lightly, marveling at her own coolness.
"Not to all things," he exclaimed, gallantly. "I believe you are partly Mexican."
"We must all adore angels," said Redfield Ash, with a bow to Carlita, "whether they be Mexican, Hindoo or heathen Chinee, and such you have proven yourself tonight by the beauty of your exquisite voice, Miss de Barryos. Won't you sing for us again? or are you weary?"
Carlita could never tell what impulse moved her, nor how she happened to yield to it, but she looked up into Pierrepont's face wistfully, and said, slowly:
"Will you accompany me? Your playing would convert a linnet to a nightingale."
He smiled the pleasure he felt, and seated himself at once; but his mind seemed preoccupied, for while he played the notes of the selection she placed before him, there was not the spirit—the exquisite coloring that usually characterized his playing, Carlita observed, watching with ceaseless intent.
Suddenly she seemed to have forgotten to hate herself for the despicable part she was playing—to have forgotten everything in the interest that surrounded the central figures in her little drama. She was like the detective who forgets he is a spy, under the excitement of a human chase.