"That makes no difference to me," rejoined Utrilla, making a gesture worthy of Roland or Don Quixote.
The brigadier's son looked at him surprised at such valor, at once ridiculous and heroic.
On returning to the parlor, after giving a few directions, he casually fell in with Filomena, who was coming from the dressing-room with a box of rice-powder in her hand.
"I was anxious to meet you so as to whisper in the tenderest, tenderest voice that you are angelic, maddening!" said the heathen, approaching her with an insinuating smile, and bringing his mouth close to her ear.
"Come now, none of your nonsense, you bad boy! With such a young and lovely wife, aren't you ashamed to be making love to the girls?"
He suddenly grew serious; but quickly coming to himself, he retorted with a laugh:—
"The priest's benediction was not able to rob me of my innate qualities, and one of them was the love of the beautiful."
"You men are all alike; art! beauty! Little words by which you try to conceal your lack of shame!"
"Thanks, Filo, for at least having used the plural. It is to be understood under all circumstances that I reserve the right of admiring you."
The girl shrugged her shoulders, and made a disdainful face, and suddenly taking the powder-puff, she dabbed it upon his cheek.