Years ago, he had loved devotedly a simple little girl with no pretensions to beauty or great charm, possessing only average intelligence. He had loved her for her sweet nature, her good qualities. And she had loved him in return.
But this was an entirely different matter. That poor little dead girl, still a very tender memory, had never had any other lover but himself. Violet Hargrave, with her powers of fascination, her blonde prettiness, her quick mentality, must have had many men at her feet.
Did the foreign element in him attract the foreign element in her? It might be so, but he could not be sure of that. In many things he was more Spanish in thought and feeling than English, but she was more English than Spanish in everything, of that he was convinced.
Had he been a few years younger, had he enjoyed less experience in life, have thought less over social problems, anarchist doctrines might have appealed to him very strongly. He was sure they would never appeal to her, the English strain in her was too strong.
When he spoke, he put a very leading question.
“I have often wondered whether you are really greatly interested in the Cause? Whether the methods we have to adopt are not somewhat repugnant to you?”
He looked at her very steadfastly. He judged her to be an admirable actress, but he noticed she did not meet his glance. Perhaps if she was really attracted by him, as she seemed to be, it was not so easy to act.
She spoke a little nervously. “What on earth has made you think that? Why should I be here if I were not sincere? I joined the organisation of my own free will. Juan Jaques, who was my sponsor, explained everything very clearly to me.”
Moreno spoke lightly. “You have been comfortably off for many years, and you are more English than foreign. Anarchist principles don’t take deep root in English soil.”
“My father was a revolutionary at heart, although not an active one,” she said hastily. “Of course, I don’t suppose my mother thought about such things.”