worried to think consecutively. She
only seemed to feel some terror in the air. In very pity I bent down and
whispered carefully near her ear, "His name is Ortega."

I expected some effect from that name but I never expected what happened.
With the sudden, free, spontaneous agility of a young animal she leaped
off the sofa, leaving her slippers behind, and in one bound reached
almost the middle of the room. The vigour, the instinctive precision of
that spring, were something amazing. I just escaped being knocked over.
She landed lightly on her bare feet with a perfect balance, without the
slightest suspicion of swaying in her instant immobility. It lasted less
than a second, then she spun round distractedly and darted at the first
door she could see. My own agility was just enough to enable me to grip
the back of the fur coat and then catch her round the body before she
could wriggle herself out of the sleeves. She was muttering all the
time, "No, no, no." She abandoned herself to me just for an instant
during which I got her back to the middle of the room. There she
attempted to free herself and I let her go at once. With her face very
close to mine, but apparently not knowing what she was looking at she
repeated again twice, "No--No," with an intonation which might well have
brought dampness to my eyes but which only made me regret that I didn't
kill the honest Ortega at sight. Suddenly Dona Rita swung round and
seizing her loose hair with both hands started twisting it up before one
of the sumptuous mirrors. The wide fur sleeves slipped down her white
arms. In a brusque movement like a downward stab she transfixed the
whole mass of tawny glints and sparks with the arrow of gold which she
perceived lying there, before her, on the marble console. Then she
sprang away from the glass muttering feverishly, "Out--out--out of this
house," and trying with an awful, senseless stare to dodge past me who
had put myself in her way with open arms. At last I managed to seize her
by the shoulders and in the extremity of my distress I shook her roughly.
If she hadn't quieted down then I believe my heart would have broken. I
spluttered right into her face: "I won't let you. Here you stay." She
seemed to recognize me at last, and suddenly still, perfectly firm on her
white feet, she let her arms fall and, from an abyss of desolation,
whispered, "O! George! No! No! Not Ortega."

There was a passion of mature grief