"Honest, genuine truths, cousin divine!"
Don Alfonso's berlina was waiting at the corner of the street, according to the orders that he had given the coachman. He lighted an Havana and as he slammed the door to, he said:—
"To the Riveras'."
Any one seeing him leaning back in his carriage, with his cigar between his teeth, would have taken him for an elegant swell about to have a drive through the Castellana.
Still the same frown, a sign of intense questioning, which had appeared on his brow when he said good by to Miguel at the Ateneo, now furrowed it again, perhaps deeper and darker than ever.
"At six, as always, at the Swiss restaurant," he said to his driver, as he dismounted from the landau.
And with slow step, his face a trifle pale, he entered the doorway of Miguel's house, and mounted the staircase.
He rang the bell vigorously, like a familiar and honored friend.
Plácida came to open for him.
"Señorito, it is good to see you!" she exclaimed, with the sympathy inspired in maid-servant by visitors when they are handsome men.