Antonio relapsed into moody silence. The news that his name was still being linked with Margarida's filled him with chagrin, if only for the sake of Senhor Jorge and his family. When, however, his thoughts came back to Isabel he softened. He saw no reason for doubting that she was disinterested in dreading the disaster of his union with an unlettered and unintelligent country lass, and he was unconsciously flattered by her generous recognition of his finer temperament. Isabel, waiting at his elbow like a repentant child, felt the softening; and, plucking up fresh courage, she said: "You haven't told me yet if it is true. You've only told me that you don't crick your neck." "Which do you think?" asked the monk rather sharply. "Do you believe this gossip or not?" "I don't," she replied, without hesitation. "But ... there's just one thing that might make me credit it." "What is it?" "Well. This Margarida is certainly very pretty. She has an adorable color and wonderful eyes, and she wears her mantilla beautifully. Besides--" "But you've never seen her," interrupted Antonio in alarm. "Yes, I have. This morning. In church. At Mass. Why weren't you there? I thought you were obliged to go. I went with Joanninha. Don't ask me to say that I liked it. The gilded wood and the crude colors hurt my eyes, and the music was fearful. I couldn't understand a word of the sermon and I didn't know what they were doing at the altar, so I had to pass the time looking at Margarida. If I were a man, I could fall in love with her." "You went to church?" repeated Antonio, bewildered. Throughout their many talks during the week he had avoided the subject of religion. He had seen that it ruffled her, and he preferred not to discuss it until they knew one another's first principles and prejudices in less weighty matters. But he had not once failed, night or morning, to commend the work of Isabel's conversion to Our Lady of Perpetual Succor, or to pray that he might become the instrument of the Holy Ghost therein. "Why did you go?" he asked. "To look at Margarida?' "Most decidedly not," she retorted with spirit. "I didn't know who the pretty girl in the mantilla was till I came home. Fisher only told me this gossip two hours ago." "Then you went to church to see what it was like?" he persisted, hoping, nevertheless, that there was some better reason. "I went because I wanted to," she answered. "But come back to the point. Is it true about Margarida?" He had gradually become aware of a new sympathy between them. All the resentment and distrust faded out of his heart. His gaze sought hers; and not until he could look down into her eyes did he answer: "It is not true. It never was. It never will be."