By a half smile that was certainly not conjured up by her father's conversation Dominica saw that Sir Nicholas was still attending. Meat was set before the lady, breast of mutton served with a sauce flavoured with saffron. There was a pasty beside, and a compost of quinces. She fell to, and continued to talk to Master Dangerfield. Don Manuel tried more than once to catch his daughter's eye, but he failed, and was forced to pursue his conversation with Sir Nicholas. "You have a well-found vessel, señor," he remarked courteously. "My own, señor." Beauvallet picked up a flagon of wine. "I have here an Alicante wine, señor, or a Burgundy, if you should prefer it. Or there is Rhenish. Say but the word!" "You are too good, señor. The Alicante wine, I thank you." He observed that his cup was of Moorish ware, much used in Spain, and raised his brows at it. Delicately he forbore comment. "You remark my cups, señor?" said Beauvallet, lacking a like delicacy. "They come out of Andalusia." He saw a slight stiffening on the part of his guest, and his eyes twinkled. "Nay, nay señor, they never were upon a Spanish galleon. I bought them upon my travels, years ago." He threw Don Manuel into some discomfort. Don Manuel made haste to turn the subject. "You know my country, señor?" "Why yes, a little," Beauvallet acknowledged. He looked at Dominica's averted face. "May I give you wine, señora?" So rapt in conversation with Dangerfield was the lady that it seemed she did not hear. Beauvallet watched her a moment in some amusement, then turned to Don Manuel. "Do you suppose, señor, that your daughter will take wine from my hands?" "Dominica, you are addressed!" Don Manuel said sharply. She gave an admirable start, and turned. "Señor?" She encountered Beauvallet's eyes, brimful with laughter. "Your pardon, señor?" He held out a cup in his long fingers. She took it from him, and turned it in her hand. "Ah, did this come from the _Santa Maria_?" she asked, mighty innocent. Don Manuel blushed for his daughter's manners, and made a deprecatory sound. But Beauvallet's shoulders shook. "I had these quite honestly, señora." Dominica appeared surprised. Supper wore on its way. Don Manuel, shocked at the perversity of his daughter in bestowing all her attention on Dangerfield, began to talk to the young man himself, and successfully ousted Dominica from the conversation. She bit her lip with vexation, and became absorbed in the contemplation of a dish of marchpane. At her left hand Beauvallet lay back in his chair, and played idly with his pomander. Dominica stole a sidelong glance at him, found his eyes upon her, wickedly teasing under the down-dropped lids, and flushed hotly. She began to nibble at a piece of marchpane.