“I have had a bad time,” she said, “and hated you, as well as the Moultons, but it was unreasonable and I am over it. You were as nice and kind as possible, and I shall always remember it. Don’t ask me what that dreadful woman said. I shall forget it, but I shall never speak to any of them again, and I should be glad if you would tell them so, and that I shall remain here until they leave.” His mind grasped at once the substance of Mrs. Moulton’s diatribe; he had given the subject no thought before. He turned hot and then cold, and involuntarily took a step nearer to the girl, with a fierce instinct of protection. Catalina may have understood, for a spot of color appeared on her high cheek-bones, but she continued, calmly: “Of course you want to know where I have been and what I am doing in this house. When I left the hotel I went directly to the archbishop and told him as much as was necessary, using as passport a circular letter the fathers of the mission of Santa Barbara had given me. He brought me here at once. The Señora Villéna has this beautiful house, but is poor—and so kind. I have enjoyed the change, I can tell you.” “You certainly are more in your element. I am glad it has turned out so well. I have been very uneasy.” “Have you? Did you think I had thrown myself into the Tagus, or was wandering about roofless with my big grip in my hand?” “It was my knowledge of your good sense, familiarity with the language, and winning manner—when you choose to exert it—that permitted me to go to bed at night. Nevertheless, you are not the woman to travel alone in Spain. What are your plans?” “What are the Moultons’ plans?” “They have had enough of Spain—of travel, for that matter—and they are still in dread of Jesus Maria. They will go from here to Barcelona, take a boat for Genoa, and remain there until their steamer arrives. They say that Italy will feel like home after Spain.” “Then I shall go from here to Granada. Perhaps I can persuade some one to chaperon me, but if not I shall go alone. Nothing shall cheat me out of Granada.” “If you find no one else I shall go with you.” The red spots spread down to her throat, but she lifted her head higher. “No,” she said, “I suppose it does not look right.” He cursed Mrs. Moulton for shattering the serene innocence of the girl; nevertheless, something even more captivating had replaced it. “I shall go,” he repeated, “unless I can persuade you to return to America with your relatives. Then my mind will be at rest. But as long as you are alone in Spain I shall do my best to protect you. If you forbid me to travel with you, well and good. I shall merely follow—that is to say, be your companion on the trains. In the towns we need not meet unless you wish it. You can always put yourself under the protection of the woman of the house and employ a duenna. But do adopt me as a brother and dismiss all nonsensical ideas from your mind.”