We came out at last on the dark, gloomy aisle of the cathedral, and walked together without a word up along the side of the choir, till we came to the transept. There was not a soul near us, and not a sound was to be heard but the distant, low pattering of a mass, then in course of celebration at some far-off chapel in the cathedral. When we got to the transept Maria turned a little, as though she was going to the transept door, and then stopped herself. She stood still; and when I stood also, she made two steps towards me, and put her hand on my arm. “Oh, John!” she said. “‘Well,” said I; “after all it does not signify. You can make a joke of it when my back is turned.” “Dearest John!”—she had never spoken to me in that way before—“you must not be angry with me. It is better that we should explain to each other, is it not?” “Oh, much better. I am very glad you heard of it at once. I do not look at it quite in the same light that you do; but nevertheless—” “What do you mean? But I know you are angry with me. And yet you cannot think that I intended those words for you. Of course I know now that there was nothing rude in what passed.” “Oh, but there was.” “No, I am sure there was not. You could not be rude though you are so free hearted. I see it all now, and so does the marquis. You will like him so much when you come to know him. Tell me that you won’t be cross with me for what I have said. Sometimes I think that I have displeased you, and yet my whole wish has been to welcome you to Seville, and to make you comfortable as an old friend. Promise me that you will not be cross with me.” Cross with her! I certainly had no intention of being cross, but I had begun to think that she would not care what my humour might be. “Maria,” I said, taking hold of her hand. “No, John, do not do that. It is in the church, you know.” “Maria, will you answer me a question?” “Yes,” she said, very slowly, looking dawn upon the stone slabs beneath our feet. “Do you love me?” “Love you!” “Yes, do you love me? You were to give me an answer here, in Seville, and now I ask for it. I have almost taught myself to think that it is needless to ask; and now this horrid mischance—” “What do you mean?” said she, speaking very quickly. “Why this miserable blunder about the marquis’s button! After that I suppose—” “The marquis! Oh, John, is that to make a difference between you and me?—a little joke like that?” “But does it not?” “Make a change between us!—such a thing as that! Oh, John!” “But tell me, Maria, what am I to hope? If you will say that you can love me, I shall care nothing for the marquis. In that case I can bear to be laughed at.” “Who will dare to laugh at you? Not the marquis, whom I am sure you will like.” “Your friend in this plaza, who told you of all this.” “What, poor Tomàs!” “I do not know about his being poor. I mean the gentleman who was with you last night.” “Yes, Tomàs. You do not know who he is?”