Mary hurried into another room by a glass door, and Louis heard her speaking Spanish, and a languid reply; then returning, she beckoned to him to advance, whispering, ’Don’t be surprised, these are the usual habits.  We can talk before her, she never follows English.’

He could at first see no one, but presently was aware of a grass hammock swung from the richly-carved beams, and in it something white; then of a large pair of black eyes gazing full at him with a liquid soft stare.  He made his bow, and summoned his best Spanish, and she made an answer which he understood, by the help of Mary, to be a welcome; then she smiled and signed with her head towards him and Mary, and said what Mary only interpreted by colouring, as did Louis, for such looks and smiles were of all languages.  Then it was explained that only as a relation did she admit his Excellency el Visconde, before her evening toilette in her duelos was made—­Mary would take care of him.  And dismissing them with a graceful bend of her head, she returned to her doze and her cigarito.

Mary conducted Louis to the cool, shaded, arched doorway, opening under the rich marble cloister of the court-yard, where a fountain made a delicious bubbling in the centre.  She clapped her hands—­a little negro girl appeared, to whom she gave an order, and presently two more negroes came in, bringing magnificent oranges and pomegranates, and iced wine and water, on a silver tray, covered with a richly-embroidered napkin.  He would have felt himself in the Alhambra, if he could have felt anything but that he was beside Mary.

’Sit down, sit down, you have proved yourself Mary enough already by waiting on me.  I want to look at you, and to hear you.  You are not altered!’ he cried joyfully, as he drew her into the full light.  ’You have your own eyes, and that’s your very smile! only grown handsomer.  That’s all!’

She really was.  She was a woman to be handsomer at twenty-seven than at twenty-one; and with the glow of unexpected bliss over her fine countenance, it did not need a lover’s eye to behold her as something better than beautiful.

And for her! who shall tell the marvel of scarcely-credited joy, every time she heard the music of his softly-dropped distinct words, and looked up at the beloved face, perhaps a little less fair, with rather less of the boyish delicacy of feature, but more noble, more defined—­as soft and sweet as ever, but with all the indecision gone; all that expression that had at times seemed like weakness.  He was not the mere lad she had loved with a guiding motherly love, but a man to respect and rely on—­ready, collected, dealing with easy coolness with the person who had domineered over that house for years.  He was all, and more than all, her fondest fancy had framed; and coming to her aid at the moment of her utmost difficulty, brought to her by the love which she had not dared to confide in nor encourage!  No wonder that she feared to move, lest she should find herself awakened from a dream too happy to last.