In Spain, women do not shake hands with men; their dainty fingers (dingy frequently) are kissed, or not touched at all; hence we may suppose that Quentin and Isidora, when they began to sit hand-in-hand looking out on the pouring rain as twilight deepened, had got a long way on in lovemaking--in engineering parlance, that he had pushed the trenches to the base of the glacis. Some one remarks somewhere, that the fogs and sleet of England mar many a ripening love; but that under the clear skies, in the balmy air, in the long sultry days, the voluptuous evenings, and still more in the gorgeous moonlights of Spain, the gentle passion is of more rapid growth, and becomes more impulsive, heartfelt, and keen. In the present instance, however, chance and a storm--such as that which waylaid Dido and the Trojan hero--had been the inspirers of Donna Isidora, who, sooth to say, found Quentin somewhat slow to follow her example. "Mi hermano--my brother--you will be and must be," she would whisper at times, in a manner that, to say the least of it, was very bewitching. "I shall try, Donna Isidora." "Try, say you? Wherefore only _try_?" she asked, with her eyes full of fire and inquiry. "Is it a task so difficult to feel esteem or love for me? Go! I shall hate you!" Then she would thrust aside his hand, and pouting, half turn away her flushing face, only that the little hand might be taken again, an explanation made, and reconciliation effected. On the evening of the second day, after one of those little poutings, and after Isidora, in anger, had been absent from him nearly two hours, she rejoined Quentin in the boudoir, which was their usual apartment, and where he welcomed her reappearance so warmly, that her face was overspread by happy and beautiful smiles. Poor Quentin, who was at that age when a young man is apt to slide rather than fall into a regular love fit, was gradually being ensnared. "The companionship of these few days I shall remember for ever," said he. "You shall indeed be sorrowed for, hermana mia." "Think only of the present, and not of parting," said she, letting her cheek sink upon his shoulder, as they sat, hand in hand, in the window of the little boudoir, the objects of which were half hidden in the twilight. Quentin felt his heart beat quickly, and his respiration become thick, but he said with a tender smile-- "Isidora, I am almost afraid of you." "Afraid--and of _me_?" "Yes." "But why, mi querido?" "You carry a stiletto," said he, laughing, "and I don't like it." "There--behold!" she exclaimed in a breathless voice, as she drew the long steel bodkin from her hair, which fell in a dark and ripply volume over her shoulders and bosom; "I am defenceless now," she added, throwing it on the sofa; but Quentin was slow to accept the challenge. "Oh, Isidora, to what end is all this?" he asked, struggling with himself, and almost remonstrating with her. "Why allure me to love you, as love you I shall?"