THE TRAIL
The Count rose again and went to the window without looking at Marcos.
They had lived together like brothers, and like brothers, they had fallen
into the habit of closing the door of silence upon certain subjects.

Juanita, it would appear, was one of these. For neither was at ease while
speaking of her. Spaniards and Germans and Englishmen are not notable for
a pretty and fanciful treatment of the subject of love. But they approach
it with a certain shy delicacy of which the lighter Latin heart has no
conception.

The Count glanced over his shoulder, and Marcos, without looking up, must
have seen the action, for he took the opportunity of shaking his head.

"You shake your head," said Sarrion, with a sort of effort to be gay and
careless, "What do you want? She is the prettiest girl in Aragon."

"It is not that," said Marcos, curtly, with a flush on his brown face.

"Then what is it?"

Marcos made no answer. The Count lighted another cigarette, to gain time,
perhaps.

"Listen to me," he said at length. "We have always understood each other,
except about Juanita. We have nearly always been of the same mind--you
and I."

Marcos was leaning his arms on the table and looked across the room
towards his father with a slow smile.