“I was looking for you.  I thought it was you behind those curtains all the time.”  He began a flurried defence of his recent outrageous behavior, to which Miss Garavel endeavored to listen with distant composure.  But he was so desperately in earnest, so anxious to make light of the matter, so eager to expose all his folly and have done with it, that he must have been funnier than he knew.  In the midst of his narrative the girl’s eyes showed an encouraging gleam, and when he described his interview with Torres and Heran their surprise and dramatic indignation, she laughed merrily.

“Oh, it wasn’t funny at the time,” he hastened to add.  “I felt as though I had actually proposed, and might have to pay alimony.”

“Poor Maria!  It is no light thing to be cast aside by one’s lover.  She is broken-hearted, and for six months she will do penance.”

“This penance thing is a habit with you girls.  But I wasn’t her lover; I’m yours.”

“Do not be foolish,” she exclaimed, sharply, “or I shall be forced to walk with my father.”

“Don’t do that.  Can’t you see we must make haste while the curtain is down?”

“I do not see.  I am strolling in search of the cool air.”  She bowed and smiled at some passing friends.  She seemed very careless, very flippant.  She was not at all the impetuous, mischievous Chiquita he had met in the woods.

“See here!” he said, soberly.  “We can’t go on this way.  Now that I’ve met your father, I’m going to explain my intentions to him, and ask his permission to call on you.”

“We have a—­proverb, senor, ‘Ir por lana, y volver trasquilado,’ which means, ‘Take heed lest you find what you do not seek.’  Do not be impetuous.”

“There’s only one thing I’m seeking.”

“My father is a stern man.  In his home he is entirely a Spaniard, and if he learned how we met, for instance"-even under the electric light he saw her flush-"he would create a terrible scene.”  She paused in her walk and leaned over the stone balustrade, staring out across the ink-black harbor.

“Trust me!  I shan’t tell him.”

“There are so many reasons why it is useless.”

“Name one.”

“One!” She shrugged lightly.  “In the first place I care nothing for you.  Is not that enough?”

“No, indeed.  You’ll get over that.”

“Let us imagine, then, the contrary.  You Americans are entirely different from our people.  You are cold, deliberate, wicked-your social customs are not like ours.  You do not at all understand us.  How then could you be interested to meet a Spanish family?”

“Why, you’re half American.”

“Oh yes, although it is to be regretted.  Even at school in your Baltimore I learned many improper things, against which I have had to struggle ever since.”

“For instance?”

“Ah,” she sighed, “I saw so much liberty; I heard of the shocking conduct of your American ladies, and, while I know it is quite wrong and wicked, still-it is interesting.  Why, there is no other nice girl in all Panama who would have talked with you as I did in the forest that day.”