When the driver whipped up his horse, SeÑora PardiÑas called out to her son, who was on the box:

“Give him Rita Pardo’s direction.”

Rogelio obeyed; but when they reached the house in the dingy Calle del Pez, in which the engineer’s wife lived, he jumped down and opening the carnage door, said to his mother:

“I won’t go in. To make your inquiries you have no need of me.”

“And where are you going now?”

“Oh, to take a turn,” responded the student, indifferently, with a farewell gesture of the hand which betrayed the impatience of the boy growing into manhood to assert his manly independence, something like the nervous fluttering of the wings of the bird when his cage door is opened to him. Without further explanation he drew his cloak more closely about him and disappeared around the nearest corner. His mother followed him with her eyes as long as he remained in sight, then she sighed to herself and half smiled. “It must come some day,” she thought. “He is at an age when the reins cannot be held too tightly. Of course, the poor boy does not impose upon me, that is only to show his independence; he will look in at a few shop-windows, buy half-a-dozen periodicals, and take a turn or two with any friend he chances to meet, and then go to the apothecary’s. If I could only see him strong, robust, burly—there are boys at his age that are perfect giants that have a beard like a forest. He is so delicate, and so puny! Our Lady of Succor, bring me safely through!”

These maternal anxieties had calmed down by the time SeÑora PardiÑas, releasing her grasp on the banister of the stairs, had rung the bell of Rita Pardo’s apartment—a third floor with the pretensions of a first. The door was opened by a girl of eleven or twelve, pale, black-eyed, with her hair in disorder, her dress in still greater disorder, who as soon as she saw the visitor ran away, crying:

“Mamma! Mamma! SeÑora de PardiÑas!”

“Show her into the parlor; I will come directly,” answered a woman’s voice from the inner regions of kitchen or pantry. DoÑa Aurora, without waiting for the permission, was already entering the parlor, a perfect type of middle-class vulgarity, full of showy objects, and without a single solid or artistic piece of furniture. There were three or four chairs covered with plush of various colors, an ÉtagÈre on which were some cast-metal statuettes; several trumpery ornaments and silver articles which were there only because they were silver; two oil-paintings in oval frames, portraits of the master and the mistress of the house, dressed in their Sunday finery; on the floor was a moquette carpet, badly swept. It was evident that the parlor was seldom cleaned or aired, and the carpet gave unmistakable indications of the presence of children in the house.

At the end of ten minutes, Rita Pardo, the engineer’s wife, made her appearance. She came in fastening the last button of a morning gown, too fine for the occasion, of pale blue satin trimmed with cream-colored lace, which she had put on without changing her undergarments soiled in her household tasks. She had powdered her face, and put on her bracelets. Although she was no longer young and her figure had lost its trimness, neither maternity nor time had been able to dim her piquant beauty, but the coquette whom we remember laying her snares for her cousin, the Marquis of Ulloa, had been transformed into a circumspect matron, with that veneering of decorum under which only the keen eye of the student of human nature could discover the real woman, such as she was, and would ever remain; for the real man and the real woman, however they may disguise themselves, do not change. She greeted SeÑora de PardiÑas cordially, with her usual, “What a pleasure to see you, Aurora! Heavens! in this life of Madrid months may pass without seeing one’s friends or knowing whether they are living or dead. You have caught me like a fright. The mornings are terrible—they slip away in listening to idle chatter and sending and receiving messages. How sorry Eugenio will be——”

No sooner had DoÑa Aurora broached the subject of her visit than Rita Pardo suspended the flow of her talk and waited to hear further, with evident curiosity depicted in her voluptuous black eyes, and on her hard, fresh mouth. A series of ambiguous gestures and malicious little laughs was the prelude to the following commentary:

“What do you tell me? What do you tell me? Esclavita Lamas. The rector of Vimieiro’s Esclavita Lamas! Ta, ta, ta, ta, ta! And how has Esclavita Lamas happened to come across you?—Isn’t she a girl with auburn hair?”

“I don’t know whether her hair is auburn or not. She wears a shawl over her head. She is in deep mourning and looks very neat. Her appearance is greatly in her favor.”

“Well, well, well! Esclavita Lamas! Who would have thought it! Yes, she is, as we say in our part of the country, very demure, very mannerly; she talks so soft and low that at times you can scarcely hear her. She smells a hundred leagues off of the sacristy and of incense. A little saint!”

DoÑa Aurora was more discouraged than was reasonable by this preamble; she resolved, however, to disguise her feelings and to find out the truth, the whole truth, even though it should grieve her to the heart to hear any ill of the girl, in whom she was deeply interested.

“So that you know her very well?” she said.

“Heavens! As well as I know my own fingers. Indeed I know her! Lamas TarrÍo was a great friend of the family even while he was in the other parish in the mountains before papa presented him for Vimieiro. He always lived in our house, and he was very fond of making presents. What lard, what cheese, what eggs at Easter and what capons at Christmas he used to give us! Papa thought a great deal of him, for in the mountains he took charge of the collecting of the rents. In short, he was devoted to us. He was indebted to papa, too, for a great many favors, important favors, DoÑa Aurora.”

“Well, what I want to know is what relates to the girl. If her antecedents are good, and I can admit her into my house, I shall be glad of it. I am not satisfied with Pepa, and I have taken a liking to this girl.”

Rita Pardo smiled maliciously, as she smoothed out the lace of her left sleeve, a little crumpled with use. She arched her eyebrows, and made a grimace difficult of interpretation.

“Um! Good antecedents may mean much or little, as you know. What is good for one is only middling for another. In that matter, some people are more particular than others. If the girl pleases you so much——”

“No, not so fast!” exclaimed SeÑora de PardiÑas, alarmed. “For me good antecedents are good antecedents, neither more nor less. Be frank and tell me all you know, for that is what I have come for; and now with the thorn of suspicion you have planted in my mind, I would not take the girl, not if she were crowned with glory, unless you explain to me——”

Rita smoothed out her lace again, and gave a little sigh of embarrassment as she answered:

“Aurora, there are certain things that, no matter how public they may be, one cannot have it on one’s conscience to reveal them. You know nothing about the matter, eh? Then it would be very ugly on my part to enlighten you. So much the better if it has not reached your ears; it is an advantage for Esclavita. And you can take her without any hesitation; I am certain she will turn out an excellent servant.”

“You are jesting, Rita,” said SeÑora de PardiÑas, letting her growing irritation get the better of her, “You envelop the affair in mystery, you make a mountain out of it, and then you tell me that I may take Esclavita. No, child; in my house people are not received in that way, without knowing anything about them. Explain what you mean——”

When the interview had reached this point Rita assumed a manner that was almost discourteous; she threw herself back, her nostrils dilated, her bosom swelled, and she began to excuse herself from answering with an air of offended dignity and wounded modesty.

When, after exhausting all her arguments, DoÑa Aurora obtained for her sole response, “I am very sorry, but it is impossible,” she rose, without troubling herself to conceal the annoyance this impertinent affectation of modesty had given her. She was just saying angrily, “Excuse my having come to trouble you,” when after a loud ring at the bell, followed by exclamations in a childish voice in the hall, the eldest girl—the twelve-year-old madcap, rushed joyfully into the parlor, crying:

“Mamma! mamma! Uncle Gabriel!”

Then, the widow PardiÑas, with sudden inspiration, planted her feet firmly on the floor, saying to herself:

“Now I shall have my revenge. Now you shall see, hypocritical cat, impostor, humbug!”