Poor Cecilia! She had taken the first piece of paper that came to hand, and without waiting for perfumes, she generally wrote to her lover in pencil.
If women only knew the importance of these wretched details!
Venturita had been hovering about her mother all day, waiting for an opportunity of speaking privately to her. In the evening, when the needlewomen had gone, the mother and daughter were at last alone. Cecilia had retired to her room, a prey to a depression that she had tried to combat by work during the day. Doña Paula was seated in an armchair with her eyes fixed on the window, looking at the last rays of the setting sun, in a melancholy, pensive attitude unusual in her. She seemed to forebode the trouble that was coming. Venturita put the embroidery frames away in a corner, covered them over with a cloth, arranged the chairs in order and dragged the work-basket to one side so that it should not be in the way.
"Have the lights brought," said Doña Paula.
"Why?" returned the girl, taking a low chair by her side. "It is all tidy now."
Her mother turned her eyes again to the window, and resumed her melancholy attitude. At the end of some minutes' silence Venturita took her parent's hand and raised it affectionately to her lips. Doña Paula turned her head with surprise. Seldom, nay never, had her youngest daughter given this respectful kiss. She smiled sweetly, and taking her by the chin, she said:
"Are you pleased with the dress?"
"Yes, mama."
"It makes you a very pretty figure. If it is taken in a little at the waist it will be charming."
The girl was silent, and after a minute she raised her eyes, and, controlling her voice, said in a calm tone: