“It is, alas! not within your power to prevent it! The matter has already been arranged.”
“Then you are actually betrothed?”
“Yes,” she replied in a hoarse voice. “To a man I hate.”
“Then you must let me act on your behalf. I must—I will?”
“No. You can do nothing to help me. As I have already explained, my life in future can only be one of tragedy—just as yours may be, I fear,” she added in a slow, distinct voice.
“I hardly follow you,” he exclaimed, looking at her much puzzled.
She smiled sadly, turning her big eyes upon his.
“Probably not,” she said. “But does not half Madrid know the tragedy of your love for the dancer, Beatriz Rojas de Ruata, the beautiful woman whose misfortune it is to have a husband in the person of a drunken cab-driver.”
“What!” he gasped, starting and staring at her in amazement. “Then you know Madrid?”
“Yes, I have been in Madrid,” was her answer. “And I have heard in the salons of your mad infatuation for the beautiful opera-dancer. It is common gossip, and most people sigh and sympathise with you, for it is known, too, that Hubert Waldron, of the British Embassy, is the soul of honour—and that such love as his can only bring tragedy in its train.”