“No madame, but I knew a friend of his once, and I had hoped to present myself to his notice upon that score.”
“You would not have found him at all entertaining,” said Doña Beatrice. “It is far better to know me.”
Sir Nicholas bowed. “I am sure of it, madame,” he said, and was inclined to think he spoke sooth.
“I must have you come to my ball on Friday evening,” she announced. “It will be very painstaking and very dull. You shall solace my boredom. I suppose you must meet my son.” She sighed and addressed Don Rodriguez. “Señor, Don Diego is somewhere at hand. Pray send for him.”
“I have already had that pleasure, madame. I met your son upon the Mentidero yesterday.”
“Ah, then you will not want to see him again,” she said, as though she perfectly understood. “You need not send, señor.”
Sir Nicholas bit his lip. “On the contrary, I shall be charmed, madame.”
Her eyelids lifted for a moment. He thought he had never seen eyes so curiously cold, so cynical, yet so good-humoured. “Señor, send for Don Diego,” she sighed.
In a minute or two Don Diego came in, and with him the scent of musk. He was very punctilious in his manner towards Sir Nicholas, and while the two men spoke together his mother lay back in her chair watching them with her omniscient smile.
“You will see the Chevalier at your ball, my son,” she said. “My dear Chevalier, how remiss I am! I did not tell you that it is in my son’s honour. His anniversary. I forget which, but no doubt he will tell you.”
“It can be of no interest to the Chevalier, señora,” said Don Diego, annoyed.
“I shall hope to have the felicity of meeting your niece, madame,” said Beauvallet. “Or perhaps she does not go into public yet?”
Don Diego looked cross; Doña Beatrice continued to fan herself. “She will be present,” she said placidly.
It struck Beauvallet that both father and son looked sharply at her, but she gave no sign. He rose to take his leave, kissed her hand, and was ushered forth.
When the door had closed behind him Don Diego gave a pettish shrug of the shoulder, and flung over to the window. “Why must you invite him for Friday?” he asked. “Are you so enamoured of him? He walks abroad as though he had bought Madrid.”
“I thought he might amuse me,” his mother replied. “A very personable man. It is most entertaining to see you at such a disadvantage, my son.”
Don Rodriguez expostulated at this. “My love, how can you say so? Diego is a proper caballero—the properest in Madrid, I dare swear. His air, his carriage—”
“Very exquisite, señor. I have never seen him otherwise, and I fear I never shall.”
“I do not profess to understand what you would be at, señora,” said Don Diego, with a half-laugh.
She got up out of her chair. “How should you? You should live in a painting, Diego; a painting of soft lines and graceful attitudes. I doubt the Chevalier would never stay still in it.” She went out, chuckling to herself.
Father and son looked at each other. “Your mother has a—has an odd twist in her humour,” said Don Rodriguez weakly.
“My mother, señor,” said Don Diego tartly, “likes to be thought enigmatic. She said that Dominica would be present, but will she?” He opened the little comfit box that he carried, and put a sweetmeat into his mouth. “If she consents it will be for the first time.”
“Leave her to your mother. She—she is a very remarkable woman, Diego.”
“Likewise is my cousin a very remarkable self-willed chit,” said Don Diego. He licked his fingers and shut up the box. “She is as cold as ice,” he said impatiently. “Bewitched. A scornful piece that wants schooling.”
“Bethink you, it is very soon after Don Manuel’s death for her to be thinking of bridals,” Don Rodriguez said excusingly. “You would maybe do well to deal gently.”
“Do I not deal gently?” The sneer was clearly marked now. “And while I stay supplicating she but grows the colder, and every caballero in the town is eager to hazard his luck. She is like to be off with another if this continues. Or her uncle de Tobar will take a hand in the game, and try to get her for that overgrown fool, Miguel. Oh yes, she hinted she might write to him! A vixen!”
Don Rodriguez murmured a vague expostulation. “I don’t think it, I don’t think it. She has no mind to wed yet, and your mother hath an eye to her. Belike you do not go well to work with her.”
“I will use her more hardly if this coldness endures,” said Don Diego. His eyes glinted, and Don Rodriguez looked away.
“Leave it to your mother,” he advised feebly. “It is early yet to despair.”
There was some excuse for Don Diego’s ill-humour. He had a very pretty cousin, heiress to great wealth, marked clearly by heaven to be a bride for him, and the devil was in it that the girl must needs flout him. Such a thing had never happened to him before. He was at first incredulous, then sullen.
As for Dominica, there was a good reason for her refusal to fall in with the wishes of her family, had they but known it. How should a maid think of Diego who had lain trembling in Beauvallet’s arms?
Since those mad days at sea much had happened in her life. She found herself bewildered, undaunted, certainly, but wary. Her father came home only to die, and he left her in the ward of his sister Beatrice. She discovered that she was wealthy, mistress of large estates in the south: a rare matrimonial prize, in effect. She was gathered under her aunt’s ample wing, and knew not what to make of that lady.
There was no gainsaying Doña
