“I don’t know whether I mind having my hand held or not.” But if this were diplomacy it failed; he tightened his clasp. “I am not sure that I know _you_.” “I have heard you say that a good many times. You are not very original.” “I was thinking of to-day, particularly.” “Why to-day?” The wondering expression held her eyes. “I have never felt more natural, nor happy. I feel as if the mere blood in my veins had turned to that golden mist we saw on the vega this morning. I adore Spain!” She spoke the last words in such a passion of relief that he brought his face closer to hers. “I believe I’d give my soul to kiss you,” he whispered. There was no humor in his eyes, and he looked the born lover; and the glades of the “sacred grove” looked the very bower of lovers. But Catalina’s moment of response was over. Humiliated and furious with herself, she vowed on the spot that she would never again lift an eyelash to fascinate him. Love seemed lying in the dust, rocked back and forth by her experimental foot. He should come to her of his own free will, or go whence he came—with Miss Holmes, if he chose. She would be loved and wooed ideally, or die an old maid. But to bait—to man[oe]uvre—to cross swords with a rival! For the moment she hated Over, and he might have departed on the instant with her blessing. She had snatched away her hand and was almost running down the hill. He made no effort to recover her until they reached the Gate of Granada, and then they walked sedately down the white hot street together. “Miss Holmes, it seems, has arranged rather a jolly affair for to-night,” he said. “A dance in the Alhambra—in the Court of Lions. She has permission from the authorities, and has engaged some musicians. The moon rises at ten, and we will dance for two or three hours. How do you like the idea?” “Well enough. I am not overfond of dancing.” “I am sorry. I hoped you would give me the first waltz.” “Well, I will if I dance. But dancing is not my forte, and I hate doing anything I don’t do well. I suppose you don’t dance any better yourself, though. Englishmen never do.” “Indeed! How many Englishmen have you danced with?” “Well, I have heard they don’t.” “I flatter myself I dance rather well. It would be more like you to judge for yourself.” “I’ll see.” They reached the post-office after a hot walk through the town, there to meet with the usual official stupidity, or indifference, at the window of the _poste restante_. In vain Catalina adjured the somnolent person leaning on his elbows to look carefully through the R’s and S’s and O’s. He replied that there was nothing, but that there might be on the morrow; the manager of the pension had already spoken to him. They left the post-office with bristling tempers. “It is a relief to hate something in Spain,” cried Catalina. “And I hate the post, the telegraph, and the banks. There is a cab. I have had enough of walking for one day.” XXIII