He spoke with ardour, not heeding the want of gallantry the words implied. Clementina's pride suffered all the more from the simplicity and conviction of his tone; both contemplated the picture for a few seconds in silence. Tears trembled in Raimundo's eyes. At last the lady asked:
"How old was your mother?"
"And I am five-and-thirty," she replied, with ill-disguised satisfaction.
Raimundo looked at her once more.
"Yes, you are younger and handsomer. But my mother's complexion was finer, though she was some years older. Her skin was as soft as satin, and there was no worn look about her eyes; they were like a child's. It was very natural. My mother's life was calm and uneventful; she had done nothing to wear out her body or soul."
He was quite unconscious of implying anything rude to the lady whom he addressed. She was indeed exceedingly nettled, but she did not dare to show it, for the youth's grief and perfect sincerity inspired her with respect. She therefore changed the subject, glancing round the study, with some curiosity.
"You collect butterflies it would seem."
"Yes, Señora, from my childhood, and I have succeeded in getting together a very respectable number of varieties. I have some very beautiful and curious species—look here."
Clementina went to one of the cabinets. Raimundo eagerly opened it and placed a tray in her hand full of lovely creatures of the most brilliant hues.