After judicious consideration, O'Reilly pretended to agree.

"There's no fun in wreaking a horrible revenge, when your enemy
isn't wise to it," he acknowledged. "Since it's your idea to
irritate your stepmother, perhaps it would annoy her more if I
made love directly to her."

Rosa tittered, and then inquired, naively, "Can you make love,
senor?"

"Can I? It's the one ability an O'Reilly inherits. Listen to this
now." Reaching forth, he took Rosa's fingers in his. "Wait!" he
cried as she resisted. "Pretend that you're Mrs. Varona, your own
stepmother, and that this is her dimpled hand I'm holding."

"Oh-h!" The girl allowed his grasp to remain. "But Isabel's hand
isn't dimpled: it's thin and bony. I've felt it on my ears often
enough."

"Don't interrupt," he told her. "Isabel, my little darling--"

"'Little'! La! La! She's as tall and ugly as a chimney."

"Hush! I've held my tongue as long as I can, but now it's running
away of its own accord, and I must tell you how mad I am about
you. The first time I saw you--it was at the ball in the Spanish
Club--" Again Rosa drew away sharply, at which O'Reilly laid his
other hand over the one in his palm, saying, quickly: "You and
your stepdaughter, Rosa. Do you remember that first waltz of ours?
Sure, I thought I was in heaven, with you in my arms and your eyes