imed disdainfully. "I do not care to sleep. I feared
you were suffering."

"Oh, no," she exclaimed, in a voice that contradicted her words, "I am
not suffering."

At last the sun rose. How beautiful she was! I mean the woman, not the
sun. What deep suffering had lined her face and lurked in the depths of
her beautiful eyes!

She was elegantly dressed and evidently belonged to a good family.
Every gesture bore the imprint of distinction. She was the kind of a
woman you expect to see in the principal box at the opera, resplendent
with jewels, surrounded by admirers.

We breakfasted at Colmenar. After that my companion became more
confidential, and I said to myself when we again entered the coach:
"Philip, you have met your fate. It's now or never."

II

I regretted the very first word I mentioned to her regarding my
feelings. She became a block of ice, and I lost at once all that I
might have gained in her good graces. Still she answered me very
kindly: "It is not because it is you, sir, who speak to me of love, but
love itself is something which I hold in horror."

"But why, dear lady?" I inquired.

"Because my heart is dead. Because I have loved to the point of
delirium, and I have been deceived."

I felt that I should talk to her in a philosophic way and there were a
lot of platitudes on the tip of my tongue, but I refrained. I knew that
she meant what she said. When we arrived at Malaga, she said to me in a
tone I shall never forget as long as I live: "I thank you a thousand
times for your kind attention during the trip, and hope you will
forgive me if I do not tell you my name and address."

"Do you mean then that we shall not meet again?"

"Never! And you, especially, should not regret it." And then with a
smile that was utterly without joy she extended her exquisite hand to
me and said: "Pray to God for me."

I pressed her hand and made a low bow. She entered a handsome victoria
which was awaiting her, and as it moved away she bowed to me again.

* * * * *

Two months later I met her again.

At two o'clock in the afternoon I was jogging along in an old cart on
the road that leads to Cordoba. The object of my journey was to examine
some land which I owned in that neighborhood and pass three or four
weeks with one of the judges of the Supreme Court, who was an intimate
friend of mine and had been my schoolmate at the University of Granada.

He received me with