At last the letter came.
Would that it had never come! Saavedra entered his aunt's house with his face pale and dark lines under his eyes, and with a mortal sadness depicted on it. In order to accomplish this theatrical effect he had spent the previous night in a drunken spree. Julia's face changed when she saw him; then instantly she knew by intuition what news he had brought. When they had taken their seat together by the piano, the place where they had carried on almost all their secret conversations, the caballero exclaimed in a tone full of sorrow, and hiding his face in his hands:—
"How unhappy I am, Julita!"
She was silent for a few moments, and then said:—
"Your mother does not consent to our marriage,—is that it?"
Don Alfonso did not reply. Silence reigned for some time. Finally Julia broke it in a trembling voice:—
"Don't take it so to heart, Alfonso. Instead of helping me, you take away my courage."
"You are right, my beauty! even in this I am selfish. I ought to consider that beside the grief that you feel as keenly as I do, if you love me, you have had an insult put upon you."
"No, no," the young girl hastened to say; "I do not feel that it is an insult. All I feel is that I cannot be yours."
Saavedra gave her a fascinating look of love, and pressed her hand warmly.