He glanced at Julia, and saw in her eyes the look of expectancy
which was, in reality, always there. The thought flashed through
his mind that by some means, or perhaps feminine intuition beyond
his comprehension, she knew that he possessed the letter addressed
to her, and was eagerly awaiting it. This letter seemed to have
been gaining in importance the longer he carried it, and this
opportunity of giving it to her came at the right moment. He
remembered Larralde's words concerning the person to whom the
missive was addressed, and the high-flown sentiments of that
somewhat theatrical gentleman became in some degree justified.
Julia Barenna was a woman who might well awaken a passionate love.
Conyngham realised this, as from a distance, while Julia's mother
spoke of some trivial matter of the moment to unheeding ears. That
distance seemed now to exist between him and all women. It had come
suddenly, and one glance of Estella's eyes had called it into
existence.

'Yes,' Senora Barenna was saying, 'Father Concha is very angry with
the English. What a terrible man! You do not know him, Senor
Conyngham?'

'I think I have met him, senora.'

'Ah, but you have never seen him angry. You have never confessed to
him! A little, little sin--no larger than the eye of a fly--a
little bite of a calf's sweetbread on Friday in mere forgetfulness,
and Sancta Maria! what a penance is required! What suffering! It
is a purgatory to have such a confessor.'

'Surely madame can have no sins,' said Conyngham pleasantly.