And it must be said that when they came on dangerous ground they several times narrowly escaped a conversation of exceedingly questionable taste. When such a skirmish of wit began, Maximina used to walk up and down the balcony with Rosaura; although she smiled, it was evident that she did not approve. When she and her husband were alone afterwards, she said nothing about it, but the way in which she spoke of Filomena showed that she felt no great esteem for her.
"Well, in spite of her boldness and her masculine ways," Miguel used to say, "she is a nice girl ... much better than her sister, according to my way of thinking."
Maximina said nothing, so as not to contradict him, but she had her own very decided opinion. A vague feeling of jealousy, for which she could not fully account, contributed toward making her feel an antipathy to her.
Thus matters stood, when, one morning Miguel, lying back in an easy-chair in his study, was tranquilly listening to Maximina, who, seated on a stool at his feet, and leaning her shoulder against his knees, was reading aloud from Adventures of the Squire Marcos of Obregón, written by Vicente Espinel. While the young wife was reading, he was playing with the braids of her hair, which she wore loose in the house for his special pleasure.
The reading could not have been much to Maximina's taste, judging by the careless and inattentive way in which she modulated her voice.
The novels which she liked were not those where everything that takes place is commonplace and prosaic, but another sort, the plot and extraordinary action of which piqued her curiosity.
Thus almost all the books brought by her husband for her to read made her tired and sleepy, and it surprised her that he praised these, and called those that she liked pestiferous.
She had just finished reading one chapter, terribly heavy for her, when suddenly, turning her head around and giving him a look which was half innocent and half mischievous, she asked:—
"Do you like this?"
"Very much indeed."