“What do you suppose it was?” asked Dolores innocently, as Don John brushed the ashes away.

“Dear—­it is very ridiculous—­I am ashamed of it, and I do not quite know how to explain it to you.”  Again he blushed a little.  “It seems strange to speak of it—­I never even told my mother.  At first I used to open them, but now I generally burn them like this one.”

“Generally!  Do you mean to say that you often find women’s letters with flowers in them on your table?”

“I find them everywhere,” answered Don John, with perfect simplicity.  “I have found them in my gloves, tied into the basket hilt of my sword—­often they are brought to me like ordinary letters by a messenger who waits for an answer.  Once I found one on my pillow!”

“But”—­Dolores hesitated—­“but are they—­are they all from the same person?” she asked timidly.  Don John laughed, and shook his head.

“She would need to be a very persistent and industrious person,” he answered.  “Do you not understand?”

“No.  Who are these women who persecute you with their writing?  And why do they write to you?  Do they want you to help them?”

“Not exactly that;” he was still smiling.  “I ought not to laugh, I suppose.  They are ladies of the court sometimes, and sometimes others, and I—­I fancy that they want me to—­how shall I say?—­to begin by writing them letters of the same sort.”

“What sort of letters?”

“Why—­love letters,” answered Don John, driven to extremity in spite of his resistance.

“Love letters!” cried Dolores, understanding at last.  “Do you mean to say that there are women whom you do not know, who tell you that they love you before you have ever spoken to them?  Do you mean that a lady of the court, whom you have probably never even seen, wrote that note and tied it up with flowers and risked everything to bring it here, just in the hope that you might notice her?  It is horrible!  It is vile!  It is shameless!  It is beneath anything!”

“You say she was a lady—­you saw her.  I did not.  But that is what she did, whoever she may be.”

“And there are women like that—­here, in the palace!  How little I know!”

“And the less you learn about the world, the better,” answered the young soldier shortly.

“But you have never answered one, have you?” asked Dolores, with a scorn that showed how sure she was of his reply.

“No.”  He spoke thoughtfully.  “I once thought of answering one.  I meant to tell her that she was out of her senses, but I changed my mind.  That was long ago, before I knew you—­when I was eighteen.”

“Ever since you were a boy!”