"Do you know what I thought as I stood by you in the church?" he
asked.

"No," she said, indifferently. "I hope you prayed for the fortune of
the little one."

"I did not; nor did you. You were too afraid you would drop it. I was
thinking how unmotherly, I had almost said unwomanly, you looked. You
were made for the great world,--the restless world, where people fly
faster from monotony than from a tidal wave."

She looked at him with cold dignity, but flushed a little. "I am not
unwomanly, señor, although I confess I do not understand babies and do
detest to sew. But if I ever marry I shall be a good wife and mother.
No Spanish woman was ever otherwise, for every Spanish woman has had a
good mother for example."

"You have said exactly what you should have said, voicing the inborn
principles and sentiments of the Spanish woman. I should be interested
to know what your individual sentiments are. But you misunderstand me.
I said that you were too good for the average lot of woman. You are a
woman, not a doll; an intelligence, not a bundle of shallow emotions
and transient desires. You should have a larger destiny."

She gave him a swift sidelong flash from eyes that suddenly looked
childish and eager.

"It is true," she said, frankly, "I have no desire to marry and have
many children. My father has never said to me, 'Thou must marry;' and
I have sometimes thought I would say 'No' when that time came. For the