“We have no nightingales in Devon, Don Guzman,” said Lady Grenville; “but our little forest thrushes sing, as you hear, sweetly enough to content any ear.  But what brings you away from the gentlemen so early?”

“These letters,” said he, “which have just been put into my hand; and as they call me home to Spain, I was loath to lose a moment of that delightful company from which I must part so soon.”

“To Spain?” asked half-a-dozen voices:  for the Don was a general favorite.

“Yes, and thence to the Indies.  My ransom has arrived, and with it the promise of an office.  I am to be Governor of La Guayra in Caracas.  Congratulate me on my promotion.”

A mist was over Rose’s eyes.  The Spaniard’s voice was hard and flippant.  Did he care for her, after all?  And if he did, was it nevertheless hopeless?  How her cheeks glowed!  Everybody must see it!  Anything to turn away their attention from her, and in that nervous haste which makes people speak, and speak foolishly too, just because they ought to be silent, she asked—­

“And where is La Guayra?”

“Half round the world, on the coast of the Spanish Main.  The loveliest place on earth, and the loveliest governor’s house, in a forest of palms at the foot of a mountain eight thousand feet high:  I shall only want a wife there to be in paradise.”

“I don’t doubt that you may persuade some fair lady of Seville to accompany you thither,” said Lady Grenville.

“Thanks, gracious madam:  but the truth is, that since I have had the bliss of knowing English ladies, I have begun to think that they are the only ones on earth worth wooing.”

“A thousand thanks for the compliment; but I fear none of our free English maidens would like to submit to the guardianship of a duenna.  Eh, Rose? how should you like to be kept under lock and key all day by an ugly old woman with a horn on her forehead?”

Poor Rose turned so scarlet that Lady Grenville knew her secret on the spot, and would have tried to turn the conversation:  but before she could speak, some burgher’s wife blundered out a commonplace about the jealousy of Spanish husbands; and another, to make matters better, giggled out something more true than delicate about West Indian masters and fair slaves.

“Ladies,” said Don Guzman, reddening, “believe me that these are but the calumnies of ignorance.  If we be more jealous than other nations, it is because we love more passionately.  If some of us abroad are profligate, it is because they, poor men, have no helpmate, which, like the amethyst, keeps its wearer pure.  I could tell you stories, ladies, of the constancy and devotion of Spanish husbands, even in the Indies, as strange as ever romancer invented.”

“Can you?  Then we challenge you to give us one at least.”

“I fear it would be too long, madam.”

“The longer the more pleasant, senor.  How can we spend an hour better this afternoon, while the gentlemen within are finishing their wine?”