“I don’t wish any trouble, of course,” Mr. Moulton had said to Over that morning, “but I am seriously considering the plan of continuing the journey to Granada in a first-class carriage. Lydia has already begun to suffer from the annoyance, and it is abominable that a refined, carefully brought up girl should be subjected to such an experience. The marquis was bad enough—but this! Even when her back is to him I am sure she feels his rude stare. I can assure you, Over, a pretty daughter is a great responsibility; but although I have had to dispose—diplomatically, of course—of several undesirable suitors, I never even anticipated anything like this. It is preposterous.” “The first-class idea is not bad; it would emphasize the difference between them; it is rather a puzzle to him, I fancy—he is a Spaniard, remember—that we travel in his own way and yet regard him from a superior plane.” Captain Over, as he stood with Catalina at a booth on the platform buying substantial tortillas made of eggs, meat, and potatoes, repeated the conversation. “He thinks they have never communicated in any way,” he added. “What is the best thing to do? I don’t fancy telling tales, but it seems to me Mr. Moulton should be warned.” “Oh, Lydia can take care of herself,” said Catalina, carelessly. “She is a little flirt and quite intoxicated with what she calls an intrigue. It is the first time she has ever done any thinking for herself—you can see what Cousin Lyman is; he’d feed us if we’d let him. If we were Moultons, we’d be taking a little fling ourselves. Here she comes.” Lydia found a place beside them in the crowd that was clamoring for the old woman’s hot tortillas. “Mother says there is not enough bread,” she said. “Jane is afraid of the beggars and father has disappeared, or I suppose I should not have got this far alone. Talk about the freedom of the American girl! I’d like to write a book to tell the world how many different kinds of Americans there are.” “You can’t deny that you are a spoiled child, though,” said Over, banteringly, and then he scowled. The young peasant had joined the group and was quietly demanding a tortilla. He no longer wore his peasant blouse, but the gala costume he had bought or borrowed in Tarragona. He was a superb figure of a man, and every woman on the platform stared at him. He looked haughtily aloof, even from Lydia, but Over saw her hand seek her little waist-bag and suspected that a note passed. “He certainly is a man,” he said to Catalina, as they walked back to the train; “looks more of a gentleman, for that matter, than a good many we dine with. Still, it can’t go on; so set your wits to work, and we’ll get rid of him between us.”