ON the day after her visit to Raimundo, Clementina felt even more ashamed and crestfallen at having paid it than at the moment when she came down those stairs. Proud natures feel as much remorse for an action which, in their opinion, has humiliated them, as the virtuous do when they have failed in humility. In her inmost soul she confessed that she had taken a false step. The youth's serenity and courtesy, while they raised him in her eyes, irritated her vanity. What comments must he and his sister have been making since her absurd and uninvited call! She coloured to think of them. Not to see or to be seen by AlcÁzar from his observatory, she ceased to go out on foot. The young man kept his word; she saw no sign of him.

But, why she knew not, his visage constantly rose before her eyes; he was perpetually in her thoughts. Was it aversion that she felt? Or resentment? Clementina could not honestly say that it was. There was nothing in his face or behaviour to make him odious to her. Was it, on the contrary, that his person had impressed her too favourably? Not at all. She met every day other men of more attractive manners and of more amusing conversation. So that it surprised as much as it provoked her to find herself thinking about him. She never ceased protesting to herself against this tendency, and reproaching herself for indulging it.

One afternoon, some days after the scene just narrated, she decided on taking a walk. Not to do so seemed to her cowardly; she was doing this boy too much honour. As she passed the house where he lived she glanced up at his window and saw him sitting there, as usual, with a book in his hand. She immediately looked down, and crossed the road with stately gravity; but after going a few steps, she felt a vague sense of dissatisfaction with herself. In fact, not to bow to the young man, not even to return his bow, was unmannerly, after his frank explanation and the politeness with which he had shown her his fine collection of butterflies.

Next day she again went out on foot, and repaired her injustice of the day before by looking steadily up at the window. Raimundo made her so respectful a bow, with so candid a smile, that the beauty felt flattered, and could not deny that the young fellow had singularly soft eyes, which made him very attractive, and that his conversation, if not remarkably elegant, showed a solid understanding and cultivated mind. She ought to have seen all this at first, no doubt, but for some unknown reason she had not. From this day forward she went out walking as before. As she passed the house in the Calle de Serrano she never failed to send a friendly nod to the upper window, or he to reply with eager courtesy; and as the days went on these greetings became more and more expressive. Without exchanging a word they were on quite intimate terms.

Clementina made an attempt to analyse her feelings towards young AlcÁzar. She was not in the habit of introspection. She vaguely thought that it was an act of charity to show him some kindness. "Poor boy," she said to herself, "how fond he was of his mother! What happiness to have had so good and loving a son!"

One afternoon when these greetings had been going on for more than a month, Pepe Castro asked her:

"I say, is it long since that red-haired boy left off following you about?"

Clementina was conscious of an unwonted shock, and coloured a little without knowing why.

"Yes; I have not seen him for at least a month."

Why did she tell an untruth? Castro was so far from imagining that there could be any acquaintance between this unknown devotee and his mistress that he did not notice her blush, and changed the subject with complete indifference. But to the lady herself, this strange shock and rising flush were a vague revelation of what was taking place within her. The first definite result of this revelation was that on quitting her lover's house, instead of thinking of him, she reflected that AlcÁzar kept his promise not to follow her with singular fidelity; the second was, that as she stopped to look into a jeweller's window and saw a butterfly brooch of diamonds, she said to herself that some of those she had seen in her friend's collection were far more beautiful and brilliant. The third effect came over her suddenly: on going into a book-seller's to buy some French novels, it struck her, as she saw the rows of books, that Pepe had certainly not read and would probably never read, one of them. Hitherto she had admired his ignorance, now it seemed ridiculous.

Time went on and SeÑora de Osorio, tired of her fashionable existence, and having tasted every emotion which comes in the way of a beautiful and wealthy woman, began to find a quite peculiar pleasure in the innocent greetings she exchanged almost every day with the youth at the corner window. One afternoon, having dismissed her carriage to take a turn in the Retiro Gardens, she met AlcÁzar and his sister in one of the avenues.

She bowed expressively; Raimundo saluted her with his usual respectful eagerness; but Clementina observed that the girl bowed with marked coolness. This occupied her thoughts and made her cross for the rest of the day, since she was forced to confess more than ever that this was at the bottom of her malaise and melancholy. By degrees, and owing chiefly to her fractious and capricious nature, this love-affair, which might have died still-born, occupied her mind and became the germ of a wish. Now in this lady, a wish was always a violent desire, above all if there were any obstacle in her way.

On a certain morning, after greeting Raimundo with the gesture peculiar to Spanish ladies, of opening and shutting her hand several times and going on her way, an involuntary impulse prompted her to look back once more at the corner window.

Raimundo was following her movements with a pair of opera glasses. She blushed scarlet and hurried on, ashamed at the discovery. What had made her guilty of such folly? What would the young naturalist think of her? At the very least he would fancy that she was in love with him. But in spite of the ferment in her brain, while she walked on as fast as she could to turn down the next street and escape from his gaze, she was less vexed with herself than she had been on other occasions. She was ashamed, no doubt, but when she presently slackened her pace, a pleasant emotion came over her, a light flutter at her heart such as she had not felt for a long time.

"I am going back to my girlhood," said she to herself, and she smiled. And it amused her to study her own feelings. She was happy in this return to the guileless agitations of her early youth.

She was so absorbed in her meditations, that on reaching the Fountain of Cybele, instead of going down the Calle de AlcalÀ, to go to Pepe Castro, with whom she had an appointment, she turned about, as though she had merely come for a walk. When she perceived it she stood still, hesitating; finally she confessed to herself that she had no great wish to keep the engagement.

"I will go to see mamma," thought she. "It is days since I spent an hour with her, poor thing."

And she went on towards the Avenue de Luchana. She was in the happiest mood. An organ was grinding out the drinking-song from Lucrezia Borgia, and she stopped to listen to it; she who was bored at the Opera by the most famous contralto! But music is the language of heaven, and can only be understood when heaven has found a way into our heart.

Coming towards her, down the Avenue de Recoletos, was Pinedo, the remarkable personage who lived with one foot in the aristocratic world and the other in the half-official world to which he really belonged. By his side was a pretty young girl, no doubt his daughter, who was unknown to Clementina: for Pinedo kept her out of the society he frequented, and hid her as carefully as Triboulet hid his. The SeÑora de Osorio had always treated Pinedo with some haughtiness, which, as we know, was not unusual with her. But at this moment her happy frame of mind made her expansive, and as Pinedo was passing her with his usual ceremonious bow, the lady stopped him, and addressed him, smiling:

"You, my friend, are a practical man; you too, I see, take advantage of these morning hours to breathe the fresh air and take a bath of sunshine."

Pinedo, against both his nature and habit, was somewhat out of countenance, perhaps because he had no wish to introduce his daughter to this very smart lady. However, he replied at once, with a gallant bow:

"And to take my chance of such unpleasing meetings as this one."

Clementina smiled graciously.

"You ought not to pay compliments even indirectly, with such a pretty young lady by your side? Is she your daughter?"

"Yes, SeÑora—SeÑora de Osorio," he added, turning to the girl, who coloured with pleasure at hearing herself called pretty by this lady whom she knew well by sight and by name. She was herself pale and slender, with an olive complexion, small well-cut features, and soft merry eyes.

"I had heard that you had a very sweet daughter, but I see that reputation has not done her justice."

She blushed deeper than ever, and faintly murmured her thanks.

"Come, Clementina, do not go on or she will begin to believe you. This lady, Pilar," he continued to his daughter, "takes as much delight in telling pleasant fibs as others do in telling unpleasant truths."

"She is, I see, most amiable," said Pilar.

"Do not believe him. Any one can see how pretty you are."

"Oh, SeÑora——"

"And tell me, tyrant father, why do you not give her a little more amusement? Do you think that you have any right to be seen at every theatre, ball and evening party, while you keep this sweet child under lock and key? or do you fancy we care more about seeing you than her?"

Poor Pinedo felt a pang which he tried to hide; Clementina had laid a frivolous finger on the tenderest spot in his heart. His salary, as we know, allowed him to live but very modestly; if he went into a class of society which was somewhat above him, it was solely to secure his tenure of an office which was the sole means of sustenance for himself and his child. She knew nothing of this. Pinedo hoped to be able to marry her to some respectable and hardworking man; she was never to see the world in which she could not live, and which he himself despised with all his heart, although from sheer force of habit perhaps he could not have lived contentedly in any other.

"She is still very young; she has time before her," he said, with a forced smile.

"Pooh, nonsense! I tell you, you are very selfish. How long is it since you were at the Valpardos?" she went on to change the subject.

"I was there on Monday; the Condesa asked much after you, and lamented that you had quite deserted her."

"Poor Anita! It is very true."

Pinedo and Clementina then plunged into an animated and endless discussion of the Valpardos and their parties. Pilar listened at first with attention; but as the greater number of the persons named were not known to her, she presently amused herself with looking about her, more especially at the few passers-by who were to be seen there at that early hour.

"Papa," said she, taking advantage of a pause, "here comes that young friend of yours who maintains his mother and sisters."

Clementina and Pinedo looked round both at once, and saw Rafael Alcantara approaching—the scapegrace youth whom we met in the Savage Club.

"Who maintains his mother and sisters?" echoed Clementina, much surprised.

"Yes, a very good young man, and a friend of papa's, called Rafael Alcantara."

The lady looked inquiringly at Pinedo, who gave her an expressive glance. Not knowing what it could mean, but supposing that her friend for some reason did not wish her to speak of Alcantara as he deserved, she held her tongue. The young man as he passed them greeted them half respectfully, half familiarly. Pinedo immediately held out his hand to take leave.

"This is Saturday you remember," said the lady. "Are you coming to dinner?"

"With much pleasure. My regards to Osorio."

"And bring this dear little girl with you."

"We will see, we will see," replied the official again, much embarrassed. "If I cannot manage it to-day, some other time."

"You must manage it, tyrant father. Au revoir then, my dear."

She took the girl by the chin, and kissed her on both cheeks, saying as she did so: "I have long wished to make your acquaintance. I sadly want some nice pretty girls in my drawing-room."

And as she walked on, in better spirits than ever, she said to herself: "What on earth can Pinedo be driving at by making a saint of that good-for-nothing Alcantara?"

With a light step, a colour in her cheeks, and her eyes sparkling as they had done in her girlhood, she soon reached the gate of the large garden in which her father's house stood. The porter hastened to open it and rang the house-bell. She went in, and, contrary to her usual custom, she smiled at the two servants in livery, who awaited her at the top of the stairs. She went by them in silence, and straight on to her stepmother's rooms, like one who has long been familiar with the place.

The Duquesa at that moment was in council with the medical director of an asylum for aged women which she had founded some time since in concert with some other ladies. When the curtain was lifted and her stepdaughter appeared she smiled affectionately.

"It is you, Clementina! Come in, my child, come in."

Clementina's heart swelled as she saw her mother's pale, thin face. She hastened to her and kissed her effusively.

"Are you pretty well, mamma? How did you sleep?"

"Very well. But I look ill, don't I?"

"Oh, no," her daughter hastily assured her.

"Yes, yes. I saw it in the glass. But I feel well, only so miserably weak; and, as I have completely lost my appetite, I cannot get any stronger.—Then, as I understand, Yradier," she went on to the doctor, who was standing in front of her, "you undertake to look after the servants and the sick women, so that there may be no lack of due consideration for the poor old things?"

The doctor was a pleasant-looking young man with an intelligent countenance.

"SeÑora Duquesa," said he with decision, "I will do everything in my power to prevent the pensioners having any complaints to make; but at the same time, I must warn you that some may still reach your ears. You cannot imagine the vexatiousness and spite of which some women are capable. Without any cause whatever, simply to insult me and my colleagues, they are capable of heaping insolence on us. And the more attention we show them, the more airs they give themselves. I taste their broth and their chocolate every day, and I have never found it bad, as that old woman declared it to be. The hours are fixed and I have never known the meals to be late. If you will make inquiries you will convince yourself that the persons who have ground for complaint are the poor servants, whom the old women treat shamefully."

The doctor had become quite excited and spoke these words in a tone of conviction.

The lady smiled gently.

"I believe you, I believe you, Yradier. Old women are very apt to be troublesome."

"Ah! SeÑora, that depends."

"We are, for the most part. But it is in itself an infirmity, and should excite compassion in those who suffer from it. I need not say so to you, for you have a charitable soul. But I beg of you to entreat those who are less forgiving, in my name, to be gentle and patient with the poor old women."

"I will, SeÑora, I will," replied Yradier, won by the lady's sweetness. "We shall see you on Thursday then?"

"I do not know whether my strength will allow of it."

"Oh, yes, I will answer for it." And feeling that he was not wanted, the young man then took his leave, pressing the lady's hand with affection and respect which spoke in his eyes, while he bowed ceremoniously to Clementina.

As soon as he was gone, she, who had been gazing with pain at her stepmother's worn features, and had been deeply moved by the goodness which was revealed in every word she uttered, rose from her seat and, kneeling down by DoÑa Carmen, took her thin white hands and kissed them in a transport of feeling. The beauty, who to all the rest of the world was so haughty, had a peculiar joy, not unlike the rapture of a mystic, in humbling herself before her stepmother. DoÑa Carmen's voice acted like a spell, stirring the dim sparks of virtue and tenderness which still lived in her heart, and fanning them for a moment to reviving heat. Then the elder lady gently removed her daughter's hat, and, laying it on a chair, bent down to kiss her fondly on the forehead.

"It is four days since you last came to see me, bad girl"

"Yesterday I could not, mamma. I spent the whole day over my accounts, doing sums. Oh, those hateful sums?"

"But why do you do them? Is not your husband there?"

"It is for fear of my husband that I do them. Do not you know that he has become as stingy and miserly as his brother-in-law?"

DoÑa Carmen knew that Osorio's affairs were not prospering, and that he had lately lost heavily on the Bourse; but she dared not tell his wife so.

"Poor, dear child! To have to think of such things when you were born to shine as a star in society."

"This alone was wanting to make him absolutely detestable. If one could but live one's life over again!"

The tender look had gone out of her eyes, they were gloomy and fierce; a deep frown puckered her statuesque brow, and in a husky tone she poured out all her grievances and related the daily vexations which her husband heaped upon her. To no one in the world but her stepmother would she have confided them; and she could speak of them without a tear, while DoÑa Carmen's weary eyes shed many as she listened.

"My darling child! And I would have given my life to see you happy! How blind we were, your father and I, to entrust you to such a man!"

"My father, indeed! A man who has never found out that he has a saint in his own house whom he ought to worship on his bended knees. When I think——"

"Hush, hush! He is your father," exclaimed DoÑa Carmen, laying a hand on her lips. "I am quite happy. If your father has his faults, I have mine; so I have no merit in forgiving him his if he on his part forgives me. Do not let us discuss your father. Talk about yourself. You cannot think how these money difficulties worry me; I am not accustomed to them. I would set them right on the spot if I could; but, as you know, very little money passes through my hands. I have to account to Antonio for all I draw, and he is not easily hoodwinked. I might, to be sure, put aside a few gold pieces for you; but my savings would not help you far. However, I hope your difficulties will soon be over."

The good woman paused, gazing sadly into vacancy; then, kissing her daughter, who was still on her knees before her, she spoke into her ear in a low voice, and went on:

"Listen, child. I cannot live much longer, and I shall leave all I have to you. Half of your father's fortune is mine, as I understand from the family lawyer."

Clementina felt a thrill, a shock, which a psychologist would find it hard to define—a mixture of sorrow and surprise, with an undercurrent of satisfaction. However, sorrow predominated; she kissed her stepmother again and again.

"What are you saying? Die! No, you are not to die! I want you much, much more than your money. But for you I should have been a very wicked woman—and I shall be, I fear, the day you cease to live. The only moments when I feel any goodness in me are those I spend with you. I fancy, mamma, that you infect me with some of your exquisite virtue."

"There, there—flatter me no more," said DoÑa Carmen, again stopping her mouth. "You think yourself worse than you are. You have a good heart. What sometimes makes you seem bad is your pride. Is not that the truth?"

"Yes, mamma, quite true. You do not know what pride is, or the miseries it brings to those who feel it as I do. To be constantly thinking of things which hurt me—to see enemies on all sides—to feel a look as though it were the point of a dagger in my heart—to catch a word, and turn it over and over in my brain till it almost makes me sick—to live with my heart sore, my mind full of alarms—oh! how often have I envied those who are as good and as humble as you. How happy should I be if I had not a gloomy and suspicious temper and the pride which devours my soul! And who knows," she went on after a pause, "that I might not have been happier in some other sphere of life? If I had been poor, and had married some hard-working and intelligent young fellow, my lot might have been better. Obliged to help my husband, to take care of a business, or attend to the details of the house, like other women who labour and struggle, I might, perhaps, not have come to this. I ought to have had a loving and patient husband—a man of talent, who could guide me. As it is, mamma, accustomed as I am to luxury and the fashionable world, I would gladly give it all up this very day and go to live in some pleasant spot in the country, far from Madrid. I only want a little love, and to keep you with me to teach me to feel and be good."

Clementina's present mood was idyllic; she had been pleasantly impressed by the simple home in the Calle de Serrano. In every woman, however hardened, however immersed in love adventures, there remains an eclogue in some corner of her brain which now and again comes to the surface. Good DoÑa Carmen listened to her and encouraged her by her smiles, and the younger lady's confidences lasted long. She recalled her early life, when she came to tell her stepmother of the declarations made to her at the ball of the night before, and to read her the billets-doux of her adorers. These reminiscences of the past made her happy. She was even tempted to talk about Pepe Castro and Raimundo, and confess the childish feelings which stirred her soul; but a feeling of respect withheld her. DoÑa Carmen's leniency was indeed so excessive as to verge on folly; it is very possible that, even if her stepdaughter had confessed her worst sins, she would hardly have been scandalised.

They breakfasted together, the Duke having gone to breakfast with a Minister. Afterwards, having relieved and refreshed their spirits with this long chat, they went together in the carriage to San Pascual's, where they prayed a while; and then they drove to the Avenue of the Retiro. They went home before dark, as the evening air was bad for DoÑa Carmen, and Clementina must be home in good time.

It was Saturday, the day on which the Osorios kept open house for dinner and cards. Before going up to dress, Clementina looked round the dining-room, studied the arrangement of the table, and ordered some little alterations in the dishes of fruit which decked it. She sent for the packet of menus—written on parchment paper with the Duke's monogram stamped in gold—begged her husband's secretary to write the name of a guest on each, and herself laid them in order on the table napkins: herself and her husband opposite each other in the middle; to the right and left of Osorio, two ladies in the seats of honour; to her own right and left, two gentlemen; and then the rest of the party in order of dignity, age, or her own preference for her guests. Then she spoke a few words with the butler, and after giving him her instructions, she went away. At the door she turned to look once more at the table, and added:

"Remove those strong-smelling flowers from the Marquesa de Alcudia's place and give her camellias, or something else which has no scent."

The pious Marquesa could not endure strong perfumes, being liable to headache. Clementina, who hated her, showed more consideration for her than for any of her friends; her ancient title, severe judgment, and even her bigotry, made her respected, and her presence in a drawing-room lent it prestige.

Clementina went to her room, followed by Estefania, the coachman's sworn foe. She put on a magnificent dress of creamy-white, cut low. She usually wore a sort of demi-toilette for these Saturday receptions, with sleeves to the elbow. But this evening she was moved to display her much-praised person in honour of a foreign diplomate who was to dine in the house for the first time. While the maid was dressing her hair, her mind wandered vaguely over the events of the day. She had not kept her appointment with Pepe; he would certainly arrive in a rage. She pouted her under lip disdainfully, and her eyes had a spiteful glitter, as if to say: "And what do I care?" Then she remembered Raimundo's greeting and that ill-starred look backwards, with a feeling of shame to which her cheeks bore witness by a deepening colour. She called herself a fool—heedless, mad. Happily for her, the young man seemed to be simple and unpretending; otherwise he would at once have built wild castles in the air. She thought of him a good deal, and with some tenderness. He was, in fact, attractive and good-looking and had a way of speaking, at once gentle and firm, which impressed her greatly; then his passionate devotion to his mother's memory, his retired life, his strange mania for butterflies, all helped to make him interesting.

How many times Clementina had thought over all this during the last few months it would be hard to say, but very often, beyond a doubt. Her spirit, lulled by a slumberous sweetness, was sentimentally inclined. That home on the third floor, that sunny study, that quiet and simple life. Who knows! Happiness may dwell where we least expect to find it. A heap of frippery, a handful of gems, a dish or two more on the table cannot give it. But an odious reflection, which for some little time had embittered all her dreams, flashed through her mind. She was growing old—yes, old. She allowed herself no illusions. Estefania found it more difficult every week to hide the silver threads among her golden hair. Though she firmly resisted every temptation to apply any chemical preparation to her beautiful tresses, she was beginning to think that there would be no help for it. The candid, eager, happy love, of which her adventure with young AlcÁzar had given her visions, was not for her. Nothing was left for her, nor had been for some time, but the vapid, vulgar inanities of aristocratic fops, all equally commonplace in their tastes, their speech, and their unfathomable vanity. What connection could there be between her and this boy but that of mother and son? She sometimes wondered whether Raimundo's feelings towards her were quite what he had described them in that first interview; but at this moment she was sure that he had spoken the simple truth, that love was impossible between a lad of twenty and a woman of seven-and-thirty—for she was seven-and-thirty though she was wont to take off two years—at any rate such love as she at this moment longed for.

These reflections furrowed her brow, and with an effort she determined to think of something else. Looking at her maid in the glass, she noticed that the girl was deadly pale. She turned round to make sure, and said:

"Are you ill, child? You are very white."

"Yes, SeÑora," said the girl in some confusion.

"Do you feel the old sickness again?"

"I think so."

"Well, go and lie down, and send up Concha. It is very odd. I will send for the doctor to-morrow, to see if he can do anything for you."

"No, no, SeÑora," the girl hastened to exclaim. "It is nothing, it will go off."

A few minutes later the lady made her appearance in the drawing-room, brilliantly beautiful. Osorio was there already, walking up and down the room with his friend and almost daily visitor at dinner, Bonifacio. He was a man of about sixty, solemn and starch, with a bald head, a yellow face and black teeth. He had been Governor in various provinces, and now held the post of chief of a Department of State. He talked little, and never contradicted—the first and indispensable virtue of a man who would fain dine well and spend nothing, and his dress-coat was perennially adorned with the red cross of the order of Calatrava to which he belonged. In his own house, the most conspicuous object was a portrait of himself with a very tall plume in his cap and an amazingly long white cloak over his shoulders.

In one corner sat Pascuala, a widow with no perceptible income, whom Clementina regarded partly as a friend, and partly as a companion to be made use of, and with her, Pepa Frias, who had just arrived. As Clementina passed the two men to shake hands with Pepa, her eyes met her husband's in a flash like gloomy and ominous lightning. Osorio's face, always dark and bilious, was really impressive by its ferocity. It was only for an instant. The ladies exchanged a few words, and the men joined them, the banker beginning to jest with his wife about her dress in a tone of affectionate banter.

"That is the way my wife wastes my money. My dear, though you may not care to hear it, I may tell you that you grow stout at an alarming rate."

"Do not say so, Osorio, Clementina has the loveliest skin of any woman in Madrid," said Pascuala.

"I should think so. The enamelling she went through in Paris last spring cost me a pretty penny."

Clementina fell in with the jest, but she had great difficulty in acting her part. Through the convulsive smiles which now and then lighted up her face, and her brief enigmatical phrases, it was easy to see her uneasiness, and even a spice of hatred.

The door-bell rang frequently, and in a few minutes the drawing-room held fifteen or twenty guests. The Marquesa de Alcudia brought none of her daughters; they were rarely seen at the Osorios'. Then came the Marquesa de Ujo, a woman who had been pretty, but was now much faded; as languid as a South American, though she was a native of Pamplona, somewhat romantic, by way of being incomprise, with literary tastes. She had with her a daughter, taller than herself, and who must have been fifteen at least, though her mother made her wear petticoats above her ankles that she might not make her seem old. The poor girl endured the mortification with a fairly good grace, though she blushed when any one happened to look at her feet.

Next came General PatiÑo, Conde de Morillejo; he never missed a Saturday. Then the Baron and Baroness de Rag appeared; it was their first dinner there, and Clementina devoted herself to them, heaping them with attentions. The Baron was plenipotentiary of some great foreign Power. The Minister of Arts and Agriculture, Jimenez Arbos, Pinedo, Pepe Castro, and the Cotorrasos husband and wife—all came in together.

At the last moment, when it wanted but a few minutes of seven, Lola Madariaga and her husband arrived. This lady, though much younger than Clementina, was her most intimate friend, and the confidant of all her secrets. She dined with her three or four times a week, and hardly a day passed without their driving out together. She could not be called pretty, but her face was so animated, her eyes sparkled so sweetly, and her lips parted in such a bewitching smile to show her little white teeth, that she had always many admirers. As a girl she had been an accomplished flirt, turning all the men's heads, loving to have them at her feet, prodigal of those insinuating smiles alike to the son of a duke or a humble employÉ, to the old man with a bald head and a bottle nose, or the slender youth of twenty, to the rich or the poor, the noble or the plebeian. Her coquetry equalised ranks and fortunes, uniting all men in a holy brotherhood to bask in the bright light of her fine black eyes, and adore the delicious dimples which a smile brought into her cheek, with all the other gifts and graces which a merciful Providence had bestowed on her. Since her marriage she still showed the same inexhaustible benevolence towards the human race, but in a less wholesale fashion—that is to say, towards one, or at most two, at a time. Her husband was a Mexican, very rich, with traces of Indian blood in his features.

They had been in the room only a minute or two when they were followed by Fuentes, a very lively little man, ugly and lean, and a good deal marked by the small-pox. No one knew what he lived on; he was supposed to have some small investments. He was to be seen in every drawing-room of any pretensions, and had a seat at the best tables. His titles to such preference lay in his being regarded as a brilliant and witty talker, intelligent and agreeable. For more than twenty years he had shone at the dinners and balls of Madrid, playing the part of first funny man. Some of his jests had become proverbial; they were repeated not only in drawing-rooms but in the cafÉs, and from thence were exported to the provinces. Unlike most men of his stamp, he was never ill-natured. His banter was not intended to wound, but only to amuse the company, and excite admiration for his easy, quick, and subtle wit. The utmost license he allowed himself was to seize on the ridiculous side of some absent friend as the subject for an epigram, but never, or almost never, at the cost of his credit. These qualities made him the idol of his circle. No one thought a party complete unless Fuentes at least put in an appearance in the course of the evening.

"Ah, Fuentes! Here is Fuentes!" cried one and another, as he appeared, and a number of hands were extended to greet him. Shaking the first he happened to grasp, he turned to the mistress of the house, saying in a dry voice which in itself had a comic effect:

"Pardon me, Clementina, if I am a little late. On my way I was caught by Perales. You know Perales; I need say no more. Then, when I escaped from his clutches, at the corner by the War Office, I fell into those of Count de Sotolargo, and he, you know, is saddled with fifty per cent. handicap."

"Why?" asked Lola Madariaga.

"He stammers, SeÑora."

All laughed, some loudly, others more discreetly. That the sally was not impromptu was evident a mile off; but it produced the desired effect, partly because it really was droll, and partly because it was a point of honour with every one to laugh whenever Fuentes opened his lips.

A moment later a servant in livery opened the door, and announced that dinner was served.

Osorio hastened to offer his arm to the Baroness de Rag, and led the way to the dining-room. The Baron closed the procession, leading Clementina. The servants all stood in a row, armed with napkins and headed by the butler. Osorio marshalled each guest to his place, and they soon were all seated.

The table was elegantly and attractively laid. The light from two large hanging lamps shone on bright-hued flowers and fruit, on a snowy cloth, sparkling glass, and shining porcelain. This light, however, being somewhat crude, did not do justice to the ladies; it gave everything the sharpness of an image in a camera. To moderate the glare and produce a more diffused light, Clementina had two large candelabra, with coloured shades, placed at each end of the table. All the ladies were in low dresses—some, like Pepa Frias, disgracefully dÉcolletÉes. The gentlemen were in evening dress with white ties.

At first the conversation was only between neighbours. The Baroness de Rag, a Belgian, with brown hair and light blue eyes, and rather stout, was asking Osorio the Spanish names for the various objects on the table. She had not been long in Spain, and was most anxious to learn the language. Clementina and the Baron were talking French. Pepa Frias, who was between Pepe Castro and Jimenez Arbos, said to Castro, in an undertone:

"What do you think of Lola's husband? Really, not so bad for a Brazilian?"

Castro smiled with his characteristic superciliousness.

"He must have lassoed many cows in the Pampas?"

"Till a cow lassoed him."

"But that was not on the Pampas."

"I know—in a public garden. That is no news."

General PatiÑo, faithful to military tradition and his own instincts, was laying siege in due form to the Marquesa de Ujo, who sat by him.

"Pearls suit you to perfection, SeÑora. A smooth and slightly olive skin like yours, betraying the warm blood and fire of the South, is peculiarly set off by Oriental splendour."

"Flattering me as usual, General. I wear pearls because they are the best gems I happen to possess. If I had emeralds as fine as Clementina's, I would leave my pearls in the jewel case," replied the lady, showing a row of rather faulty teeth when she smiled, heightened with a few bright spots of dentist's gold.

"You would be in error. A pretty woman should always wear what becomes her most. The Almighty is surely best pleased to view His finest works at their best. Emeralds suit fair complexions; but you are like the Xeres grape: amber-tinted, with a heady and intoxicating essence at the core."

"As it might be a raisin!"

"No, no, Marquesa; no."

The General eagerly repelled the charge and defended himself as valiantly as though in front of the enemy.

Meanwhile the servants were moving about handing various dishes, while others, bottle in hand, murmured in the ear of each guest, "Sauterne, Sherry, Margaux," in a hollow tone like that of a Carthusian monk muttering his memento mori.

"I drink nothing but iced champagne," Pepa Frias announced to the servant behind her.

"You need so much cooling," exclaimed Castro.

"You surely knew that," said the widow with a meaning look.

"To my sorrow!"

"Why, are you tired of Clementina?"

Fuentes was not happy under these conditions. It grieved him to lavish his wit in a tÊte-À-tÊte, so he seized the first opportunity of raising his voice and attracting the attention of the whole party.

"I saw you in the Carrera de San Jeromino yesterday morning, Fuentes," said the Condesa de Cotorraso, who sat three or four places lower down.

"That depends on what you call the morning, Condesa."

"It was about eleven, a little before or after."

"Then allow me to dispute your statement. I am never out of bed till two."

"Till two!" exclaimed one and another.

"That is going to an excess!" cried the Marquesa de Alcudia.

"But it is an aristocratic excess. Who gets up earliest in Madrid? The scavengers, porters, scullions. A little later you will see the shopmen taking down their shutters, the old women going to early Mass, grooms airing their masters' horses, and so forth. Next come the men of business and office clerks, who do all the real work of the Government, milliners' girls and the like. By about eleven you may meet a better class, officers in the army, students, civilians of a higher grade, and merchants. At noon you see the larger fry, heads of houses, bankers, and land-owners; but it is not till two that Ministers of State, Directors, Grandees of the realm and distinguished writers are to be seen in the streets."

The whole company were listening, greatly edified by this defence of laziness, and feeling themselves in a position to laugh at it, saying in an undertone:

"That Fuentes! Oh, that Fuentes can talk any one down!"

Then, simply for the pleasure of it, some one contradicted him.

"But then, my dear fellow, you do not know the delights of getting up early in the morning to breathe the fresh air and bathe in the sunshine!"

"I would sooner bathe in warm water with a little bottle of Kananga."

"Can you deny that the sun is glorious?"

"Glorious by all means, but just a little vulgar. I do not say that at the creation of the world it may not have been a very striking thing, worth getting up to look at; but you must admit that by this time it is a little played out. Can there be anything more ridiculous in these downright days than to call oneself Phoebus Apollo and drive a golden chariot? And, after all, the sun has no intrinsic merits; it stays blazing where God put it, while gas and the electric light represent the brain-work of men of genius. They are the triumph of intelligence, a record of the power of mind over matter, the sovereignty of intellect throughout the universe. Besides, you can always see the sun for nothing, and I have always had a horror of free exhibitions."

The company were all in fits of laughter, and Fuentes, encouraged by their mirth, outdid himself in paradoxes and ingenious quibbles, obviously forcing his own hand now and then. He fell into the mistake of certain over-praised actors: he did not know where to stop, and at last became farcical. From the farcical to the gross is but a step, and Fuentes not infrequently crossed the line.

The Conde de Cotorraso persisted in his defence of the sun to encourage his friend's ingenious abuse. It was the sun which gave vitality to all nature, which warmed the earthly globe, and so forth.

"As to the sun giving life, I deny it," replied Fuentes. "Madrid is much more alive by night than by day, and, as to warming me, I much prefer coke, which does not give rise to fevers. Come, Count, be frank now. What particular merit can there be in a thing which, under all circumstances, your valet must see before you do?"

This was regarded as a final happy hit, and the subject was dropped.

From talking of the sun they came to talking of the shade, and of the shade of poisonous trees. The Marquesa de Ujo asked Lola's husband, the Mexican, whose name was Ballesteros, whether the manchineel were a native of his country. He replied that it was not, but that he had seen it growing in Brazil. The lady inquired very particularly into its properties, but she was greatly disenchanted on hearing that the shade of the tree was not pernicious, and that it was only the acrid juice of the fruit which was poisonous.

"So that you do not die if you fall asleep under it?"

"SeÑora, I did not fall asleep, don't you see? But I breakfasted under one with a party of friends, and we were none the worse."

"Well, then, how does Selika commit suicide in the Africaine by lying down in the shade of a manchineel?"

"It is a fable, an invention of the poet's. It is a pretty idea but not true."

The Marquesa, quite disappointed by this realistic view of the matter, refused altogether to accept it, and argued that possibly the manchineels of India were not the same as the American kind.

"Is it true, Ballesteros," asked Clementina, "that you have eight hundred thousand cows?"

"Oh, SeÑora, that is an exaggeration! My herds number three hundred thousand at most."

"If they were mine," said Fuentes, "I would build a tank as large as the Retiro Gardens, and fill it with milk and sail a boat on it."

"We make no use of the milk, SeÑor, nor of the butter. We sometimes dry the meat for exportation, don't you see? But generally we only save the skin. And the horns also are sold for various forms of manufacture."

"Plague take him for a bore!" said Pepe Castro in a low voice, but loud enough for Jimenez Arbos to hear where he sat by Pepa Frias, who was taken with a fit of laughter which she had the greatest difficulty in choking down.

She addressed herself to Clementina to conceal her mirth as far as possible:

"Pass me the mustard, there's a trump," said she.

"Trump, trump? What is a trump?" asked the Baroness de Rag, in her eagerness to learn the language, and Osorio explained the use of the word.

Pepa addressed herself from time to time to Jimenez Arbos; a few brief sentences in a low tone, which showed that they were on intimate terms, and at the same time revealed a desire to be prudent. Her conversation with Castro on her left was more animated.

"Why don't you advise Arbos to eat more meat?" he asked her.

"Why should I?"

"Because he ought to eat meat to give him strength to endure the fatigues of daily life."

"To be sure," said the widow, sarcastically. "But do you take care of yourself and leave others to settle their own affairs as Providence may guide them."

"Well, you see I manage to get fed."

"Yes, but do not let it go to your brain, or one fine day, when you least expect it, you may find yourself without a dinner."

"Have I offended you?" said the young man, laughing as if he had heard something very amusing.

"No, my dear fellow, no. I mean what I say. For my part I cannot think how Clementina can bear such a Narcissus as you."

"Hush! hush! Be careful, Pepa, pray be careful!" cried Castro, with an alarmed glance at the mistress of the house.

"Do you know she is wonderfully artful. She has not looked at you once."

Castro, who had been a good deal piqued these few days past by his lady's coldness, smiled a forced smile and then knit his brows. Pepa did not fail to observe this.

"Look at the black cloud on Osorio's face; it is enough to frighten one! And you are the guilty cause of it, you wretch!"

"I! Oh, dear no! It is more likely to be some question of ready money which makes him look so bilious. I hear he is ruined, or within an ace of it."

Pepa started visibly.

"Who says so? Where did you hear that?"

"Several persons have told me so."

The widow turned sharply to Arbos on her other hand, and asked him in a whisper:

"Have you heard anything about Osorio's being ruined?"

"Yes, I have heard it said that Osorio has for some time been buying for a fall, and the market has gone up steadily," replied the official, with a toss of his head suggesting a peacock, and there was a touch of evident satisfaction in his tone. To a politician, buying for a fall is a crime worthy of any punishment. "I do not know how much he may be let in for at the next account; but if it is anything considerable, he is a ruined man. Consols have gone up one per cent., by the end of the month they may have risen to two."

Pepa's good spirits had entirely disappeared. She sat looking at her plate and listlessly using her fork to finish the slice of York ham she had taken. The Minister, observing her gloomy silence, asked her:

"Have you by any chance any money in his hands?"

"By chance! No, by my own idiocy. Almost everything I possess is in his hands."

"The devil it is!"

"Everything I have eaten has turned on my stomach; I believe I am going to be ill," said the lady, who was as pale as a sheet.

Arbos did his best to tranquillise her; perhaps it was not true: sudden losses, like sudden fortunes, are always greatly exaggerated. Besides, if any deposit were sacred to Osorio, it would surely be that of a lady who had entrusted her money to him out of pure friendship.

Though they were talking almost in a whisper, their grave looks and earnest manner attracted the notice of General PatiÑo, who, turning to the Marquesa de Ujo, said with singular perspicacity:

"Just look at Pepa and Arbos, a summer cloud has fallen on them. Love is a beautiful thing even in its transient torments!"

Clementina meanwhile, with Lola and the Condera de Cotorraso, had been discussing the effects of arsenic as a drug for beautifying the complexion and skin. It was the first time Lola had heard of it, and she was quite delighted, declaring that she would forthwith try this miraculous elixir.

"Good heavens, Lolita!" exclaimed Fuentes, "if, as you are, you cause such havoc in masculine hearts, what will happen after you have followed a regimen of arsenic for a few months? SeÑor Ballesteros, do not permit her to take it; it is too cruel to the rest of us."

"Come, come, friend Fuentes," said the pretty brunette, casting an insinuating glance at Castro, for she had taken it into her head that she would snatch him from Clementina, "are you trying to chaff me?"

"Chaff, what is chaff?" the Baroness de Rag asked again.

Bonifacio had for some moments been staring, without winking even, at the Belgian lady. A few days since he had purchased a photograph of a figure lounging in a hammock. He fancied that the Baroness strongly resembled this picture, and was anxious to convince himself by a prolonged study of what he could see whether what he could not see was equally like it.

The dinner could not end of course without a long discussion of the opera, Gayarre and Tosti. Otherwise the meal could not have been digested. The coffee was served in the dining-room, as was the custom of the house. Then the ladies withdrew to the drawing-room, followed by several of the men; others remained to smoke, but it was not long before they joined the others. The dining-room was intolerably hot.

Pepe Castro took advantage of the little stir as they left the dining-room to ask Clementina:

"Why did you not come this morning?"

Clementina paused a second, and looked at him with a condescending smile. "This morning?" she said. "I don't know."

"You don't know?" said the lordly youth with a sovereign frown.

"I don't know, I don't know," and she turned away still smiling a little disdainfully.

"You will come to-morrow?"

"We will see," she replied, walking away.

Castro felt that smile like a stab in his breast. He bit his under-lip, muttering: "Coquetting, eh? You shall pay me for this, my beauty!"