But he did not return to his hotel; instead, still stood irresolute, as if the thing were worth further considering. What made the young man act thus? Simply a belief that Luisa Valverde did not love him, and, therefore, would not care to have him as a companion at supper; for it was to supper her father had asked him. On the day before he had received the invitation, and signified acceptance of it. But he had seen something since which had made him half repent having done so; a man, Carlos Santander, standing beside the woman he loved, bending over her till his lips almost touched her forehead, whispering words that were heard, and, to all appearance, heeded. What the words were Florence Kearney knew not, but could easily guess their nature. They could only be of love; for he saw the carmine on her cheeks as she listened to them. He had no right to call the young lady to an account. During all his intercourse with Don Ignacio, he had seen the daughter scarce half a score times; then only while passing out and in--to or from his lessons. Now and then a few snatches of conversation had occurred between them upon any chance theme--the weather, the study he was prosecuting (how he wished _she_ had been his teacher), and the peculiarities of the New Orleans life, to which they were both strangers. And only once had she appeared to take more than an ordinary interest in his speech. This, when he talked of Mexico, and having come from his own far land, "Irlandesa," with an enthusiastic desire to visit hers, telling her of his intention to do so. On this occasion he had ventured to speak of what he had heard about Mexican banditti; still more of the beauty of the Mexican ladies--naively adding that he would no doubt be in less danger of losing his life than his heart. To this he thought she had listened, or seemed to listen, with more than ordinary attention, looking pensive as she made reply. "Yes, Don Florencio! you will see much in Mexico likely to give you gratification. 'Tis true, indeed, that many of my countrywomen are fair--some very fair. Among them you will soon forget--" Kearney's heart beat wildly, hoping he would hear the monosyllable "me." But the word was not spoken. In its place the phrase "us poor exiles," with which somewhat commonplace remark the young Mexican concluded her speech. And still there was something in what she had said, but more in her manner of saying it, which made pleasant impression upon him--something in her tone that touched a chord already making music in his heart. If it did not give him surety of her love, it, for the time, hindered him from despairing of it.