“I am still dreaming.  What have I done?  Oh-h—­they will know; in my face they will read the truth.  But I do not care.  Is—­it indeed true?”

They were at the entrance to the ballroom now, through which they had come a few minutes before, and, pausing, she gave him a half-serious, half-timid glance.

“Senor, I do not know if some time you will be sorry for this action, but I shall never cease loving you.  I prayed hourly to the Blessed Virgin, and she heard.  Now, I shall perish until you come.”

“When you give me leave; through steel and stone, through fire and water.”

“Quick, for the one more time, call me—­that—­” She hesitated, blushing vividly.  “I will hear it in my dreams.”

“My wife!” he whispered, tenderly.

“Ho!  Chiquita mia!” her father cried, as they came to him.  “There you are then.  I have missed you.”  His eyes smouldered as he gazed suspiciously at Kirk.

“Ah, but I was too warm,” she said, easily.  “Yonder by the door we have been standing in the night breeze.  And where is Ramon?”

“He is looking for you.”

“One would think him a jealous husband already,” she exclaimed, lightly.  Then, extending her hand coolly to Kirk, “I thank you, senor, for the—­dance.”

Her husband bowed.  “I shall not soon forget it.”  To the father he added, in a low voice:  “I thank you, also, for your courtesy.  We have been discussing your daughter’s marriage during the dance, and it is my one greatest hope that she will never regret it.”

The banker acknowledged the words ceremoniously.  “Love is a thing that comes and goes; marriage alone can bind it.  Some day you will thank me, and then perhaps you will honor our house again, eh?”

“I shall be happy to come whenever you wish.”  As he walked away, the banker said, with relief: 

“He takes it well; he is proud—­almost like a Spaniard.”

Kirk moved through the crowd as if in a trance, but he was beginning to realize the truth now; it surged over him in great waves of gladness.  He longed to shout his news aloud.  What luck was his!  The world was made for him; there was no such thing as adversity or failure—­Chiquita was his wife!  All Christendom might go to pot for all he cared; that marvellous fact was unalterable.  Yes, and he could speak his mind to Mrs. Cortlandt.  His tentative acceptance of the terms she made sickened him.  He wanted to rid himself of this false position as soon as possible.  What mattered her threats?  What did he care for the things she could give or withhold when all the glad open world was beckoning to him and to his bride?  Success!  Riches!  He could win them for himself.  Chiquita was all and more than they, and he was a god!

In the midst of his rhapsody he heard a bell-boy speaking his name, and smiled at him vacantly as he turned away.  But the negro followed him persistently, saying something about a letter.