"It was formerly not as good as now; the best houses were built about five or six years ago."
"Before, it was worth infinitely more, because you were there."
"Mercy! what difference did it make whether I were there or not?" exclaimed Maximina, innocently.
"Because here or there, or wherever you happened to be," replied the caballero, piqued by the young matron's ingenuous indifference, so absolutely free from coquetry, "you would always be something so precious as to attract every one's attention. And what makes you more precious still, and more worthy of admiration, is that you have not the remotest idea of your value: you are a beautiful, fresh, fragrant, aromatic flower, which is absolutely unconscious of itself...."
Maximina had not heard Don Alfonso's last words, perceiving that her husband had just given Filomena an intense look—we cannot tell what she saw in it—that congealed her with terror: she grew as pale as wax, and suddenly conceiving an idea that she thought might be her salvation, she got up without replying to Saavedra, and going straight to Filomena, she said in a hoarse voice, trying to smile:—
"Filomena, do you want to see that edging that I was speaking about yesterday?"
Miguel and Filomena looked up in amazement. Miguel was more ashamed than surprised.
"With great pleasure, dear," said the young woman.
Maximina started to go toward the door. Filomena paused a moment to give a retort to Rivera's last jest.
"Are you coming or not?" asked the young wife, halting in the middle of the parlor, and giving her a look barbed with hatred.