“Do you feel well?”

“Are you going to Malaga?”

“Did you like the Alhambra?”

“You come from Granada?”

“Isn’t the night damp?”

To which questions she respectively responded: 

“Thanks, very well.”

“Yes.”

“No, sir.”

“Yes!”

“Awful!”

It was quite certain that my traveling companion was not inclined to conversation.  I tried to think up something original to say to her, but nothing occurred to me, so I lost myself for the moment in meditation.  Why had this woman gotten on the stage at the first stop instead of at Granada?  Why was she alone?  Was she married?  Was she really a widow?  Why was she so sad?  I certainly had no right to ask her any of these questions, and yet she interested me.  How I wished the sun would rise.  In the daytime one may talk freely, but in the pitch darkness one feels a certain oppression, it seems like taking an unfair advantage.

My unknown did not sleep a moment during the night.  I could tell this by her breathing and by her sighing.  It is probably unnecessary to add that I did not sleep either.  Once I asked her:  “Do you feel ill?” and she replied:  “No, sir, thank you.  I beg pardon if I have disturbed your sleep.”

“Sleep!” I exclaimed disdainfully.  “I do not care to sleep.  I feared you were suffering.”

“Oh, no,” she exclaimed, in a voice that contradicted her words, “I am not suffering.”

At last the sun rose.  How beautiful she was!  I mean the woman, not the sun.  What deep suffering had lined her face and lurked in the depths of her beautiful eyes!

She was elegantly dressed and evidently belonged to a good family.  Every gesture bore the imprint of distinction.  She was the kind of a woman you expect to see in the principal box at the opera, resplendent with jewels, surrounded by admirers.

We breakfasted at Colmenar.  After that my companion became more confidential, and I said to myself when we again entered the coach:  “Philip, you have met your fate.  It’s now or never.”

II

I regretted the very first word I mentioned to her regarding my feelings.  She became a block of ice, and I lost at once all that I might have gained in her good graces.  Still she answered me very kindly:  “It is not because it is you, sir, who speak to me of love, but love itself is something which I hold in horror.”

“But why, dear lady?” I inquired.

“Because my heart is dead.  Because I have loved to the point of delirium, and I have been deceived.”

I felt that I should talk to her in a philosophic way and there were a lot of platitudes on the tip of my tongue, but I refrained.  I knew that she meant what she said.  When we arrived at Malaga, she said to me in a tone I shall never forget as long as I live:  “I thank you a thousand times for your kind attention during the trip, and hope you will forgive me if I do not tell you my name and address.”