"Why do you not get your hats from Madrid?" she asked. "Those that you get in Lancia are so old-fashioned and ridiculous."
And the count was pleased to follow her suggestions, and gradually let himself be ruled by the woman who was so weak in body and so strong in will.
One night on arriving at the Quiñones' house before anybody else, the lady said to him sharply:
"Who gave you that button-hole? Fernanda?"
The count smiled and coloured, as he gave a sign in the affirmative.
"Then you must excuse my saying it is a very ugly colour. Look here, I will give you a prettier one."
So saying, she went straight to a flower-stand in the room, and took out a magnificent pink clove. She then turned to where the count was standing, and with great boldness, although with a certain affectation of one who is showing her power, she took away the flower he was wearing, and replaced it by the fresh one. He suffered this substitution in silence, upset and surprised. She, feigning not to notice his surprise, took a step back, and said with interest:
"Yes, I think that is better!"
Then ensued a few minutes of embarrassed silence. She then began to play with Fernanda's clove, pulling the petals, whilst darting frequent glances at the count, who stood confused, not knowing what to say, nor where to look. At last their eyes met with a smile. There was a spark of malice in hers, and in the sudden scornful gesture with which she threw the flower she held in her hand under a chair.
The count instantly became serious, and his cheeks coloured. At that moment Manuel Antonio came in.