"Fool! Idiot! Crazy beast!" said the poetess, dashing past him
and out of the door. "You shall pay for this!"

Don Jose did not change his imperturbable and melancholy calm.
"And now, little one," he said, dropping on one knee before the
half-frightened Polly, "child of Jenkinson, now that thy perhaps
too excitable sponsor has, in a poet's caprice, abandoned thee for
some newer fantasy, confide in me thy distress, to me, thy Knight,
and tell the story of thy sorrows."

"But," said Polly, rising to her feet and struggling between a
laugh and a cry. "I haven't any sorrows. Oh dear! don't you see,
it's only her FANCY to make me seem so. There's nothing the matter
with me."

"Nothing the matter," repeated Don Jose slowly. "You have no
distress? You want no succor, no relief, no protector? This,
then, is but another delusion!" he said, rising sadly.

"Yes, no--that is--oh, my gracious goodness!" said Polly,
hopelessly divided between a sense of the ridiculous and some
strange attraction in the dark, gentle eyes that were fixed upon
her half reproachfully. "You don't understand."

Don Jose replied only with a melancholy smile, and then going to
the door, opened it with a bowed head and respectful courtesy. At
the act, Polly plucked up courage again, and with it a slight dash
of her old audacity.