“Dolores, do you imagine any man could resist that girl?” he rejoined.
“Have you?” she repeated with heaving breast.
Montes discarded his tantalizing lightness. “No, Dolores, I have not. I have lived in a torment lately. My love for you seems turning to hate.”
“No!” she cried, extending her hands. She softened. Her lips parted. If there were depths in her, Montes had sounded them.
“Dolores, tell me the truth,” he said, taking her hands. “You have never been true.”
“I am true to my family. They chose Perez for me to marry—before I ever knew you. It is settled. I shall marry him. But—”
“But! Dolores, you love me?”
She drooped her head. “Yes, señor—lately it has come to that. Ah! Don’t—don’t! Montes, I beg of you! You forget—I’m engaged to Perez.”
Montes released her. In her confession and resistance there was proof of his injustice. She was no nobler than her class. She was a butterfly in her fancies, a little cat in her greedy joy of physical life. But in her agitation he saw a deeper spirit.
“Dolores, if I had come first—before Perez—would you have given yourself to me?” he asked.