Since she had
been born Carmencita's life had been ordered for her with
precision by the laws of caste. Her environment wrapped her in so
that she must follow a set and beaten path. It was, to be sure, a
flower-strewn one, but often she impotently rebelled against its
very orderliness. And here in her arms was a victim of that
adventurous romance she had always longed so passionately to
know. Was it wonder she found it in her heart to both love and
envy the subject of it?
"And this young cavalier--the Senor Bucky, is it you call
him?--surely you love him, my dear."
"Oh, senorita!" The blushing face was buried on her new friend's
shoulder. "You don't know how good he is."
"Then tell me," smiled the other. "And call me Carmencita."
"He is so brave, and patient, and good. I know there was never a
man like him."
Miss Carmencita thought of one and demurred silently. "I'm sure
this paragon of lovers is at least part of what you say. Does he
love you? But I am sure he couldn't help it."
"Sometimes I think he does, but once--" Frances broke off to ask,
in a pink flame: "How does a lover act?"
Miss Carmencita's laughter rippled up.
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