"As I tell you, child. Of course I told him he was a horrid wretch, and I would not touch him with a pair of tongs. He went off very much nettled, but he will come back."
"Your cousin rides very well. I saw him on horseback yesterday."
"It is the only thing he can do. Books make him idiotic. He has been examined six times already in Roman law, and has failed to pass every time."
"What does that matter!" exclaimed Esperanza, with a scorn which might have made Heinecius turn in his grave. And she went on, "Did Madame Clément make those hats?"
"No. Mamma had them bought in Paris by Señora de Carvajal, who arrived on Saturday."
"They are very pretty."
"Yes, prettier than any Madame Clément makes."
Little Esperanza de Calderón, though plain enough, was nevertheless not without attractions, consisting partly perhaps in her youth, and partly in her mouth, on which, with its full fresh lips and even white teeth, sensuality had already set its seal. The youngest of the Alcudias was a delicate creature, all bones and eyes.
At this point another lady was shown in—a woman of forty or more, pretty still, though painted, and marked with lines left by a life of dissipation rather than by years.
"Here is Pepa Frias," said Mariana—the Señora de Calderón—with a smile.