The impetus of love-making is like the ardor of a fox-hunt.
You care little that the six-bar gate before you is the boundary of another gentleman's preserves or the fence of his pleasure-ground.

You go slap along at a smashing-pace, with your head up, and your hand low, clearing all before you, the opposing difficulties to your progress giving half the zest, because all the danger to your career.

So it is with love; the gambling spirit urges one ever onward, and the chance of failure is a reason for pursuit, where no other argument exists.
"And you do love me ?" said the senhora, with a soft, low whisper that most unaccountably suggested anything but comfort to me.
"Love you, Inez?
By this kiss--I'm in an infernal scrape!" said I, muttering this last half of my sentence to myself.
"And you'll never be jealous again ?" "Never, by all that's lovely!--your own sweet lips.

That's the very last thing to reproach me with." "And you promise me not to mind that foolish boy?
For, after all, you know, it was mere flirtation,--if even that." "I'll never think of him again," said I, while my brain was burning to make out her meaning.

"But, dearest, there goes the trumpet-call--" "And, as for Pedro Mascarenhas, I never liked him." "Are you quite sure, Inez ?" "I swear it!--so no more of him.