Isora (the daughter) sat at a little distance.
"How comes it," said Don Diego, "that you have never met our friend Senor Bar--Bar--these English names are always escaping my memory.

How is he called, Isora ?" "Mr .-- Mr.Barnard," said Isora (who, brought early to England, spoke its language like a native), but with evident confusion, and looking down as she spoke--"Mr.Barnard, I believe, you mean." "Right, my love," rejoined the Spaniard, who was smoking a long pipe with great gravity, and did not notice his daughter's embarrassment,--"a fine youth, but somewhat shy and over-modest in manner." "Youth!" thought I, and I darted a piercing look towards Isora.

"How comes it, indeed," I said aloud, "that I have not met him?
Is he a friend of long standing ?" "Nay, not very,--perhaps of some six weeks earlier date than you, Senor Don Devereux.

I pressed him, when he called this morning, to tarry your coming: but, poor youth, he is diffident, and not yet accustomed to mix freely with strangers, especially those of rank; our own presence a little overawes him;" and from Don Diego's gray mustachios issued a yet fuller cloud than was ordinarily wont to emerge thence.
My eyes were still fixed on Isora; she looked up, met them, blushed deeply, rose, and disappeared within the house.

I was already susceptible of jealousy.