In the first week of my sojourn in Seville I spoke no word of overt
love to Maria, thinking, as I confess, to induce her thereby to alter
her mode of conduct to myself. "She knows that I have come here to
make love to her--to repeat my offer; and she will at any rate be
chagrined if I am slow to do so." But it had no effect. At home my
mother was rather particular about her table, and Maria's greatest
efforts seemed to be used in giving me as nice dinners as we gave
her. In those days I did not care a straw about my dinner, and so I
took an opportunity of telling her. "Dear me," said she, looking at
me almost with grief, "do you not? What a pity! And do you not like
music either." "Oh, yes, I adore it," I replied. I felt sure at the
time that had I been born in her own sunny clime, she would never
have talked to me about eating. But that was my mistake.

I used to walk out with her about the city, seeing all that is there
of beauty and magnificence. And in what city is there more that is
worth the seeing? At first this was very delightful to me, for I
felt that I was blessed with a privilege that would not be granted to
any other man. But its value soon fell in my eyes, for others would
accost her, and walk on the other side, talking to her in Spanish, as
though I hardly existed, or were a servant there for her protection.
And I was not allowed to take her arm, and thus to appropriate her,
as I should have done in England. "No, John," she said, with the
sweetest, prettiest smile, "we don't do that here; only when people
are married." And she made this allusion to married life out,
openly, with no slightest tremor on her tongue.

"Oh, I beg pardon," said I, drawing back my hand, and feeling angry
with myself for not being fully acquainted with all the customs of a
foreign country.