"Don't talk to me! Don't you know, Manolo, that I have to get a new bell for my front door once a month, because my duns wear it out? But I take it philosophically."
He went up to Davalos, and laying a hand on his shoulder, he said in so low a voice that no one else could hear him:
"Seriously, Manolo, I mean it, I would marry my aunt. What would you lose by it? She is old—so much the better; she will die all the sooner. As soon as you are married, you will have the management of her fortune, and need not count up the years she still hopes to live. What you want, like me, is hard cash. Make no mistake about that. If we had it, we would get as fat as Cobo Ramirez. Besides, if you were rich, you could make Amparo send Salabert packing—don't you see?"
Davalos looked wide-eyed at his adviser, not sure whether he spoke in jest or in earnest. Seeing no symptom of mockery in Alcantara's face, he began to be sentimental; speaking of his former mistress with such enthusiasm and reverence as might have made any one laugh. The scheme did not seem to him preposterous; he began to discuss it seriously and consider it from all sides. Rafael listened with well-feigned interest, encouraging him to proceed by signs and nods. No one could have supposed that he was simply fooling him, while from time to time, taking advantage of a moment when Manolo gazed at the toes of his boots, seeking some word strong enough to express his passion, Rafael was making grimaces at the group, who looked on with amusement and curiosity.
The door of the room presently opened and Alvaro Luna came in. His friends hailed him with affectionate pleasure.
"Bravo! Bravo! Here is the condemned criminal."
"How dismal he looks!"
"Like a man on the brink of the grave!"
The new-comer smiled faintly, and glanced round the room. Alvaro Luna, Conde de Soto, was a man of about thirty-eight or forty, slightly built, of medium height with hard, keen eyes and a bilious complexion.
"Have any of you seen Juanito Escalona?" he asked.