“Really?”

“Now I will have to do more penance.”  She sighed sadly, but her eyes were dancing.

“I don’t understand this penance affair.  What do you do?”

She lifted a fold of her coarse denim dress.  “For six months I must wear these garments—­no pretty ones.  I must not go out in public also, and I have been sent here away from the city for a time to cure my rebellious spirit.”

“Those dresses must be hot.”

“Oh, very uncomfortable!  But, you see, I was bad.”

“Not very bad?”

“Indeed.  I disobeyed my father, my uncle, everybody.”  For the first time her eyes grew bright with anger.  “But I did not wish to be married.”

“Now, I see.  They wanted you to marry some fellow you don’t like?”

“I do like him—­”

“You did exactly right to refuse.  By all means stand pat, and don’t—­”

“‘Stand pat.’  I have not heard that word since I was in Baltimore.”

“It’s awful to marry somebody you don’t like,” he declared, with such earnest conviction that she inquired, quickly: 

“Ah, then are you married?”

“No!  But everybody says it’s positively criminal to marry without love.”

“The gentleman is very handsome.”

He shuddered, “Beware of handsome men.  If you have any idea of marriage, select a large, plain man with blue eyes and light hair.”

“I do not know such a person.”

“Not yet, of course; that is, not well enough to marry him.”

“It is not nice to speak of such things,” said the young lady, primly.  “And it is not nice also to speak with strange gentlemen who come out of the forest when one is doing penance.  But I am a half American, you know.  Perhaps that is what makes me so bad.”

“Will you catch it for talking to me?”

“Oh yes.  It is not allowed.  It is most improper.”

“Then I suppose I’d better leave.”  Anthony settled himself more comfortably upon the bench.  “And yet there is nothing really wrong about it, is there?  Why, it’s done every day in my country.  Besides, who’s going to know?”

“The padre.  I tell him everything.”

“You girls down here have a pretty tough time of it; you are guarded pretty closely, aren’t you?”

She gave him a puzzled look.

“I mean, you don’t have any liberty.  You don’t go out alone, or let fellows take you to lunch, or to the matinee, or anything like that?”

Evidently the mere mention of such things was shocking.  “Oh, senor,” she cried, incredulously, “such terrible actions cannot be permitted even in your country.  It is awful to think of!”

“Nonsense!  It’s done every day.”

“Here it would not do at all.  One’s people know best about such things.  One must be careful at all times.  But you Americans are so wicked!”

“How does a fellow ever get acquainted with a girl down here?  How does he get a chance to propose?”