our brother is accused of
conspiracy?"

"What?" She looked at him as if she inferred that this was the order
of badinage that an Iturbi y Moncada might expect from an Estenega.

"I am not joking. It is quite true."

"It is not true! Reinaldo conspire against his government? Some one
has lied. And you are ready to believe!"

"I hope some one has lied. The news is very direct, however." He
looked at her speculatively. "The more obstacles the better," he
thought; "and we may as well declare war on this question at once.
Besides, it is no use to begin as a hypocrite, when every act would
tell her what I thought of him. Moreover, he will have more or less
influence over her until her eyes are opened to his true worth. She
will not believe me, of course, but she is a woman who only needs an
impetus to do a good deal of thinking and noting." "I am going to make
you angry," he said. "I am going to tell you that I do not share your
admiration of your brother. He has ten thousand words for every idea,
and although, God knows, we have more time than anything else in this
land of the poppy where only the horses run, still there are more
profitable ways of employing it than to listen to meaningless and
bombastic words. Moreover, your brother is a dangerous man. No man is
so safe in seclusion as the one of large vanities and small ambitions.
He is not big enough to conceive a revolution, but is ready to be the
tool of any unscrupulous man who is, and, having too much egotism to
follow orders, will ruin a project at the last moment by attempting to
think for himself. I do not say these things to wantonly insult you,
senorita, only to let you know at once how I regard your brother, that
you may not accuse me of treachery or hypocrisy later."

He had expected and hoped that she would turn upon him with a burst of
fury; but she had drawn herself up to her most stately height, and
was looking at him with cold hauteur. Her mouth was as hard as a pink
jewel, and her eyes had the glitter of ice in them.

"Senor," she said, "it seems to me that you, too, waste many words--in
speaking of my brother; for what you say of him cannot interest me.
I have known him for twenty-two years; you have seen him four or six
times. What can you tell me of him? Not only is he my brother and the
natural object of my love and devotion, but he is Reinaldo Iturbi y
Moncada, the last male descendant of his house, and as such I hold him
in a regard only seco