When she felt her son's fresh, moist lips touching her, the little woman turned her head to look at him: through the tears gleamed in her eyes a smile of love and forgiveness, which it was a shame that that ungrateful little miscreant could not have appreciated.
One night, after dinner, Miguel felt lazy, as was often the case, and did not care to go out. They went to the study, and Maximina began to read the paper. Afterward, when she had taken her seat on her husband's knee, they began to talk, as usual, telling each other about the little events of the day.
"Do you know?" she said, "this afternoon I had a caller!"
"Who was it?"
"A villain!" said the little wife, smiling mischievously.
Miguel could not refrain from a slight frown. He was very jealous, as all men must be who really love, though he tried carefully to hide it.
"Who was the villain?"
The somewhat harsh tone of this question did not escape Maximina.
"The curé of Chamberí."
"The little old man who said mass on the ninth?"