Astounded, bewildered, yet conscious of some vague wound, Don Ramon remained motionless, staring after her straight, retreating figure.  Unable to follow closely either the meaning of her words or the logic of her reasoning, he nevertheless comprehended the sudden change in her manner, her voice, and the frigid resurrection of a nature he had neither known nor suspected.  He looked blankly at the collapsed hammock, as if he expected to find in its depths those sinuous graces, languid fascinations, and the soft, half sensuous contour cast off by this vanishing figure of propriety.

In the eight months of their enforced intimacy and platonic seclusion he had learned to love this naive, insinuating woman, whose frank simplicity seemed equal to his own, without thought of reserve, secrecy, or deceit.  He had gradually been led to think of the absent husband with what he believed to be her own feelings—­as of some impalpable, fleshless ancestor from whose remote presence she derived power, wealth, and importance, but to whom she owed only respect and certain obligations of honor equal to his own.  He had never heard her speak of her husband with love, with sympathy, with fellowship, with regret.  She had barely spoken of him at all, and then rather as an attractive factor in her own fascinations than a bar to a free indulgence in them.  He was as little in her way as—­his children.  With what grace she had adapted herself to his—­Don Ramon’s—­life—­she who frankly confessed she had no sympathy with her husband’s!  With what languid enthusiasm she had taken up the customs of his country, while deploring the habits of her own!  With what goddess-like indifference she had borne this interval of waiting!  And yet this woman—­who had seemed the embodiment of romance—­had received the announcement of his sacrifice—­the only revelation he allowed himself to make of his hopeless passion—­with the frigidity of a duenna!  Had he wounded her in some other unknown way?  Was she mortified that he had not first declared his passion—­he who had never dared to speak to her of love before?  Perhaps she even doubted it!  In his ignorance of the world he had, perhaps, committed some grave offense!  He should not have let her go!  He should have questioned, implored her—­thrown himself at her feet!  Was it too late yet?

He passed hurriedly into the formal little drawing-room, whose bizarre coloring was still darkened by the closed blinds and dropped awnings that had shut out the heat of day.  She was not there.  He passed the open door of her room; it was empty.  At the end of the passage a faint light stole from a door opening into the garden that was still ajar.  She must have passed out that way.  He opened it, and stepped out into the garden.