“What I think,” said Rosarito, looking at him with eyes full of affection, “is that you will not find yourself at home among us.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I don’t know whether I can make myself quite clear, cousin.  I mean that it will not be easy for you to accustom yourself to the society and the ideas of the people of Orbajosa.  I imagine so—­it is a supposition.”

“Oh, no!  I think you are mistaken.”

“You come from a different place, from another world, where the people are very clever, and very learned, and have refined manners, and a witty way of talking, and an air—­perhaps I am not making myself clear.  I mean that you are accustomed to live among people of refinement; you know a great deal.  Here there is not what you need; here the people are not learned or very polished.  Every thing is plain, Pepe.  I imagine you will be bored, terribly bored, and that in the end you will have to go away.”

The expression of sadness which was natural in Rosarito’s countenance here became so profound that Pepe Rey was deeply moved.

“You are mistaken, my dear cousin.  I did not come here with the ideas you fancy, nor is there between my character and my opinions and the character and opinions of the people here the want of harmony you imagine.  But let us suppose for a moment that there were.”

“Let us suppose it.”

“In that case I have the firm conviction that between you and me, between us two, dear Rosarito, perfect harmony would still exist.  On this point I cannot be mistaken.  My heart tells me that I am not mistaken.”

Rosarito blushed deeply, but making an effort to conceal her embarrassment under smiles and fugitive glances, she said: 

“Come, now, no pretences.  But if you mean that I shall always approve of what you say, you are right.”

“Rosario,” exclaimed the young man, “the moment I saw you my soul was filled with gladness; I felt at the same time a regret that I had not come before to Orbajosa.”

“Now, that I am not going to believe,” she said, affecting gayety to conceal her emotion.  “So soon?  Don’t begin to make protestations already.  See, Pepe, I am only a country girl, I can talk only about common things; I don’t know French; I don’t dress with elegance; all I know is how to play the piano; I——­”

“Oh, Rosario!” cried the young man, with ardor; “I believed you to be perfect before; now I am sure you are so.”

Her mother at this moment entered the room.  Rosarito, who did not know what to say in answer to her cousin’s last words, was conscious, however, of the necessity of saying something, and, looking at her mother, she cried: 

“Ah!  I forgot to give the parrot his dinner.”

“Don’t mind that now.  But why do you stay in here?  Take your cousin for a walk in the garden.”

Dona Perfecta smiled with maternal kindness at her nephew, as she pointed toward the leafy avenue which was visible through the glass door.