“Pray,” said I, “have I been all this while enjoying the society of a charming woman without guessing that she was married?” and here my eyes sought the rings upon her left hand again.
“I am not married,” she answered.
“Maybe, then, you are engaged to be married?” said I.
She made me a low bow, and held her head down till a second deep blush should have passed.
“I make you my compliments, señorita,” said I, turning in my chair to look at the ship that, by heading on a more westerly course than ourselves, was sinking her canvas.
“It will interest you to know,” said she, “that I am engaged to be married to a countryman of yours. Do you wonder why I did not long ago tell you this? I did not imagine that it would interest you. When I embarked at Acapulco I was proceeding to Madrid to get married. I had known Mr. Gerald Maxwell only three months—think! when we were affianced. Do you ask if he is a Catolique?”
“I ask nothing,” I answered.
“Oh!” she cried, giving me a look made up of pity and reproach—a deuced insufferable look, I thought it—“he is a true Catolique. All his family for ages have ever been of de ortodox faith. His father established a rich business at Lima, and his son came from his education in England to be a partner. He went to Madrid last year to represent his house in Spain. We should have been married, but my mother’s grief would not allow us to rejoice; so he sailed for Europe, and it was agreed that, when my mother had settled her affairs, she should follow with me. Santa Maria purissima! He will think I have perished.”
All this is, in effect, what she said; but her speech, of course, did not flow so easily as you read it.
“Did your friend, Mr. Gerald Maxwell, during his three months’ courtship, teach you English?”