"Oh, I would love to," replied Isobel promptly, speaking according to the dictates of her open, generous nature. Then she suddenly remembered that Guy had expressed a certain jealousy of her cousin. "But perhaps at the moment it might not be prudent. I am here _incognita_, in a rather difficult situation. Later on, perhaps." From those few halting phrases Moreno guessed accurately enough what was passing in her mind. She had a sincere affection, for her cousin, who came over here to assist her at the greatest personal inconvenience, but she would not see him, in case his visit might give offence to her lover. It is ever thus that self-sacrifice in love is rewarded. "I quite understand," he said. "Well, Farquhar is a white man, a man in a thousand. I wrung a promise from him some time ago that he would come over here to help me to save Mr Rossett. You can guess why he gave me that promise." "Yes," answered Isobel in a low voice. "I can guess why he gave that promise. He wanted to help me. You cannot tell how mean I felt. Oh, I think I will risk it. Please ask him to come and see me." Moreno shook his head. "No, better perhaps not to risk it. Farquhar is content to do good by stealth. We cannot be quite sure of the view the other gentleman might take of it, if it came to his ears." Isobel felt a frightful coward, but she was relieved by Moreno's words. Guy was very impetuous, and terribly jealous. She could not afford to rouse his suspicions. He left her feeling a little miserable and self-reproachful. Why could not men take a broad-minded view of things? Even if a girl were engaged, it did not follow that she should not be allowed to have a faithful friend. She had grown very weary of Madrid. She hated the place and the people, under these most unhappy circumstances. The good-natured Mrs Godwin had done her best to amuse her. She had taken her to the Museo del Prado, and pointed out to her the masterpieces of Velazquez, Murillo, Ribera, and other great masters. She had conducted her down the animated plaza of the Puerta del Sol. She had shown her the view from the Campillo de las Vistillas. They were too late for the Carnivals, and to a bull-fight Isobel would not go. Moreno betook himself to the quarters of Farquhar. He found the self-contained young barrister stretched on a sofa, reading a French novel. Farquhar was already a bit tired of it. On reflection, he was not quite certain if he had not been a little foolish in giving that promise. He had rushed over to Spain to help a man whose only claim to consideration lay in the fact that he had taken away from him the woman he wanted for his wife.