I took his hand, saying: 

“In the name of religion also, I beg you to pardon me.”

He bowed, opened my Don Quixote, and sat down.

This little incident disturbed me more than the harvest of compliments, gazing and pretty speeches on my most successful evening.  During the lesson I watched him attentively, which I could do the more safely, as he never looks at me.

As the result of my observations, I made out that the tutor, whom we took to be forty, is a young man, some years under thirty.  My governess, to whom I had handed him over, remarked on the beauty of his black hair and of his pearly teeth.  As to his eyes, they are velvet and fire; but he is plain and insignificant.  Though the Spaniards have been described as not a cleanly people, this man is most carefully got up, and his hands are whiter than his face.  He stoops a little, and has an extremely large, oddly-shaped head.  His ugliness, which, however, has a dash of piquancy, is aggravated by smallpox marks, which seam his face.  His forehead is very prominent, and the shaggy eyebrows meet, giving a repellent air of harshness.  There is a frowning, plaintive look on his face, reminding one of a sickly child, which owes its life to superhuman care, as Sister Marthe did.  As my father observed, his features are a shrunken reproduction of those of Cardinal Ximenes.  The natural dignity of our tutor’s manners seems to disconcert the dear Duke, who doesn’t like him, and is never at ease with him; he can’t bear to come in contact with superiority of any kind.

As soon as my father knows enough Spanish, we start for Madrid.  When Henarez returned, two days after the reproof he had given me, I remarked by way of showing my gratitude: 

“I have no doubt that you left Spain in consequence of political events.  If my father is sent there, as seems to be expected, we shall be in a position to help you, and might be able to obtain your pardon, in case you are under sentence.”

“It is impossible for any one to help me,” he replied.

“But,” I said, “is that because you refuse to accept any help, or because the thing itself is impossible?”

“Both,” he said, with a bow, and in a tone which forbade continuing the subject.

My father’s blood chafed in my veins.  I was offended by this haughty demeanor, and promptly dropped Senor Henarez.

All the same, my dear, there is something fine in this rejection of any aid.  “He would not accept even our friendship,” I reflected, whilst conjugating a verb.  Suddenly I stopped short and told him what was in my mind, but in Spanish.  Henarez replied very politely that equality of sentiment was necessary between friends, which did not exist in this case, and therefore it was useless to consider the question.

“Do you mean equality in the amount of feeling on either side, or equality in rank?” I persisted, determined to shake him out of this provoking gravity.