“You will ruin your eyes, Miss Shore,” a calm but genial voice had said. “The scene is worth it, but—” “How dare you speak to me!” cried Catalina, furiously. She advanced swiftly, willing to strike him, not in the least mollified to recognize the Englishman upon whom she had bestowed her infrequent approval the night before. His eye lit with interest and a pardonable surprise. But he continued, imperturbably: “Of course, I should not have been so rude as to speak to you if I hadn’t happened to know Mr. Moulton rather well. I had a talk with him last night in the hotel and he was good enough to tell me your name.” “How on earth did you ever know Cousin Lyman?” She forgot her anger. “You are an Englishman, and I am sure Cousin Lyman—” She stopped awkwardly, too loyal to continue, but her eyes were large with curiosity. Where could Lyman T. Moulton have known this Englishman with his unmistakable air of that small class for whose common sins society has no punishment? “He usually knows only literary people,” she continued, lamely. “And you are sure I am not!” His laugh was abrupt, but as good-natured as his voice. “You are quite right. I can’t even write a decent letter. But literary men often belong to good clubs, you know, and one of the most distinguished of our authors happened to bring Mr. Moulton to one of mine. He was over some years ago.” “Oh, I remember.” She also recalled the curious boyish pleasure which illumined Mr. Moulton’s face whenever he alluded to this visit to England. It had been his one vacation from his family in thirty years. “What is your name?” demanded Catalina, with an abruptness not unlike his own, but unmodified by his careless good-humor. “Over.” Then, as she still looked expectant, “Captain James Brassy Over, if it interests you.” “Oh!” She was childishly disappointed that he was not a lord, never having consciously seen one, then was gratified at her perspicacity of the night before. “How have I disappointed you?” “Disappointed me?” Her eyes flashed again. “All men are disappointing and are generally idiots, but I could not be disappointed in a person to whom I had never given a thought.” “Oh!” he said, blankly. He was not offended, but was uncertain whether she were affected or merely a badly brought up child. Belonging to that order of men who have something better to do than to understand women, he decided to let her remark pass and await developments. “I’m rather keen on Mr. Moulton,” he announced, “and have half a mind to join your party. I was going to cut across to Madrid, but he says you have made out rather a jolly trip down the coast and then in to Granada.” “But we are travelling third class,” she stammered, with the first prompting of snobbery she had ever known. “We—we thought it would be such an experience.” “So Mr. Moulton told me. I always travel third.” “You? Why?” “Poverty,” he said, cheerfully.