The young man remained
leaning against the rustic archway, occasionally glancing at her
and at the moving figures in the gardens. He was conscious of an
odd excitement which he could trace to no particular cause. It was
true that he had been annoyed at not finding the young girl at the
convent, and at having to justify himself to the Lady Superior for
what he conceived to be an act of gratuitous kindness; nor was he
blind to the fact that his persistence in following her was more an
act of aggression against the enemies of Pendleton than of concern
for Yerba. She was certainly pretty, he could not remember her
mother sufficiently to trace any likeness, and he had never admired
the mother's pronounced beauty. She had flashed out for an instant
into what seemed originality and feeling. But it had passed, and
she had asked no further questions in regard to the colonel.
She had hurriedly skimmed through the letter, which seemed to be
composed of certain figures and accounts. "I suppose it's all
right," she said; "at least you can say so if he asks you. It's
only an explanation why he has transferred my money from the bank
to Rothschild's agent years ago. I don't see why it should
interest me NOW.
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