‘Not now,’ said Señora Barenna with a deep sigh. ‘When I was young it was different.’ And the memory of her sinful days almost moved her to tears. She glanced at Conyngham with a tragic air of mutual understanding, as if drawing a veil over that blissful past in the presence of Julia and Estella. ‘Ask me another time,’ that glance seemed to say. ‘Yes,’ the lady continued, ‘Father Concha is very angry with the English. Firstly, because of these bibles. Blessed Heaven! what does it matter? No one can read them except the priests, and they do not want to do so. Secondly, because the English have helped to overthrow Don Carlos—’ ‘You will have a penance,’ interrupted Miss Julia Barenna quietly, ‘from Father Concha for talking politics.’ ‘But how will he know?’ asked Señora Barenna sharply; and the two young ladies laughed. Señora Barenna looked from one to the other, and shrugged her shoulders. Like many women she was a strange mixture of foolishness and worldly wisdom. She adjusted her mantilla and mutely appealed to Heaven with a glance of her upturned eyes. Conyngham, who was no diplomatist, nor possessed any skill in concealing his thoughts, looked with some interest at Julia Barenna, and Estella watched him. ‘Julia is right,’ Señora Barenna was saying, though nobody heeded her; ‘one must not talk nor even think politics in this country. You are no politician, I trust, Señor Conyngham—Señor Conyngham, I ask you, you are no politician?’ ‘No, señora,’ replied Conyngham hastily; ‘no; and if I were, I should never understand Spanish politics.’ ‘Father Concha says that Spanish politics are the same as those of any other country—each man for himself,’ said Julia with a bitter laugh. ‘And he is, no doubt, right.’ ‘Do you really think so?’ asked Julia Barenna, with more earnestness than the question would seem to require; ‘are there not true patriots who sacrifice all—not only their friends, but themselves—to the cause of their country?’ ‘Without the hope of reward?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘There may be, señorita—a few,’ answered Conyngham with a laugh, ‘but not in my country. They must all be in Spain.’ She smiled and shook her head in doubt. But it was a worn smile. The Englishman turned away and looked through the trees. He was wondering how he could get speech with Julia alone for a moment. ‘You are admiring the garden,’ said that young lady; and this time he knew that there had in reality been that meaning in her eyes which he had imagined to be there. ‘Yes, señorita, I think it must be the most beautiful garden in the world.’