She
had barely spoken of him at all, and then rather as an attractive factor
in her own fascinations than a bar to a free indulgence in them. He was
as little in her way as--his children. With what grace she had adapted
herself to his--Don Ramon's--life--she who frankly confessed she had no
sympathy with her husband's! With what languid enthusiasm she had taken
up the customs of HIS country, while deploring the habits of her own!
With what goddess-like indifference she had borne this interval
of waiting! And yet this woman--who had seemed the embodiment of
romance--had received the announcement of his sacrifice--the only
revelation he allowed himself to make of his hopeless passion--with the
frigidity of a duenna! Had he wounded her in some other unknown way?
Was she mortified that he had not first declared his passion--he who had
never dared to speak to her of love before? Perhaps she even doubted
it! In his ignorance of the world he had, perhaps, committed some grave
offense! He should not have let her go! He should have questioned,
implored her--thrown himself at her feet! Was it too late yet?
He passed hurriedly into the formal little drawing-room, whose bizarre
coloring was still darkened by the closed blinds and dropped awnings
that had shut out the heat of day.
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