"And here I am, nevertheless, looking at you with eyes of regret that you have treated me in this way." "I could not prevent your forcing yourself upon me. I meant never with my consent; and I presumed you would observe the common decencies of conduct sufficiently not to force yourself upon me in this way." "I am sure you never thought that if the chance came my way of seeing and speaking to you, I should be such a traitor to my own wishes as not to use it. But I am here, and have not come to quarrel. I have come with news that may interest even you—for it is bad news for me, and of much trouble." She glanced at me, and seemed as if to repudiate the intentional ungenerosity of my words; but said nothing, and, shrugging her shoulders, turned away; and, after a moment’s pause, substituted a retort, keeping her face averted. "Why not carry your news where you will find sympathy?" "You mean?" "To my enemies, but your new friends. The Quesadas, brother and sister, will surely bind up your wounds best. What _their_ friends suffer can scarcely concern me." I heard this with a tingling sense of pleasure, for it told me much more than Sarita intended. "I have been to Sebastian Quesada largely on your business." "You have at least had ample opportunities, and have made the most of them. I should congratulate you upon your successful knight-errantry, too." She said this with a scornful shrug of the shoulders, and a delightful curl of the lip. Was it really possible she had disliked my visits to the Quesadas because I had helped Dolores out of the crowd that day? "At any rate, my news will have the result you have wished for, Sarita. My father is dead, and I am leaving Madrid to-night." I watched her closely as I spoke, and saw her start slightly, bite her lip, and draw herself together. It did touch her, it seemed, although she was unwilling to show it. After a moment she turned and said, with an effort to be very formal: "I am very sorry for your personal sorrow." "Will you shake hands now, Sarita?" I said, going towards her. "We are not children," she returned quickly. "I am going away"—and I held out my hand. "Good-bye." She put hers into mine, and I captured it and held it firmly. "I am going away—but I shall come back again." She tried to snatch her hand from mine at this, but I held it, and, looking into her face, said firmly, "I will not part in anything but good-will, Sarita. And when I come back to Madrid it must be to find you still my friend. Don’t let any cloud come between us. There is no need. God knows I would rather have your good-will than that of anyone else on earth. Don’t you believe this?"