In a moment a woman opened the door. She was tall, lithe, and
splendidly proportioned, with a dark Spanish face and straight
hair. The man stepped inside. The woman bolted the door and
turned round.

"Ah," she said, smiling, "it is you, Senor? How good of you!"

The man started. "Whom else did you expect?" he said quickly.

"Oh!" laughed the woman, "perhaps the Archbishop."

"Nina!" said the man, in a broken voice that expressed love,
humility, and reproach. His face was white under the black
sunburn.

For a moment the woman wavered. A shadow flitted over her eyes,
then she stepped back. "No," she said, "not yet."

The man walked across to the fire, sank down in a chair, and
covered his face with his hands. The woman stepped up noiselessly
behind him and leaned over the chair. The man was either in great
agony or else he was a superb actor, for the muscles of his neck
twitched violently and his shoulders trembled.

"Oh," he muttered, as though echoing his thoughts, "I can't do it,
I can't!"

The woman caught the words and leaped up as though some one had
struck her in the face. She threw back her head. Her nostrils
dilated and her eyes flashed.