His delicacy moved the monk to turn away without even the briefest glance at the effect of his declaration upon Isabel. But she did not desire his consideration. Something magnetic in her anger compelled him to raise his eyes. He saw that she too had moved away. "Another Bride?" she repeated slowly, barbing every syllable with scorn. "Another Bride? Indeed. What an entirely enviable young woman!" For a few moments her sarcasm sustained her. With her hands hanging easily at her side she stood haughtily erect, smiling a scornful smile. But it did not last. Without warning she ran towards him and cried, with a break in her voice: "It isn't true!" "It is true," said the monk, very gently. "It is not true!" she went on, stamping her foot. "It isn't. It can't be. If it were true you would have told me before. You'd have dropped a hint, you'd have talked about her. I tell you it isn't true. If it were true you'd have told me when you denied the talk about Margarida. You are a man. You are not a cur and a brute." "This is unjust," cried Antonio. "How could I tell you yesterday, after Margarida? You ran away home like the wind. And why should I drop hints? Surely they would have been a great impertinence. How should I dream that you, an English lady, with a proud old name, would ever think so of me, a wine-merchant's clerk?" "Then why did you make love to me fifty times?" she retorted. "Fifty times? Made love? This is madness. On my honor and conscience I have not breathed a word of love to you even once." "Who said you'd breathed words? I didn't. But you've made love with your eyes. Over and over and over again you have looked at me as if I was as much to you as you were to me, and as if you and I were the only beings in the world." "I swear you are mistaken, utterly mistaken," cried Antonio. Isabel had ceased to listen. She clenched her hands together once more against her breast and stood gazing towards the mists which hid the Atlantic. When she spoke again it was not to Antonio. She seemed rather to be thinking aloud, with quick impassioned utterance. "So this is the end," she began. "Yet how long it has been in coming! I have been happy for ten days--ten whole days. When was I ever happy for three days and nights before? But it's over now. What a memory to carry to my grave--the memory of this end! I've made a fool of myself. I've made myself cheaper than dirt. I've pressed myself on a man who won't have me." Antonio took a step forward; but, without paying him the smallest attention, she continued: