Antón maintained silence: the lady urged him.
“Why are you not frank with me—who care so much for you?”
“It is”—he stammered—“the truth is that just now, less than ever, do I care to leave the town.”
“Come, come, tell it all”—insisted the lady, piqued with lively curiosity—“who is your sweetheart?”
“Sweetheart?—No; indeed I would rather——”
“Yes, indeed; who?”
“I say she is not my sweetheart—Perhaps——”
“Finish, man—perhaps what?”
“She may come to be——”
“And, who is the girl? Do I know her?”
“Very well.”
While Antón was silent, Doña Socorro thought over the riddle, and, after some minutes,