Coughing perfunctorily, he pulled at his shirt-cuffs, ran his fingers through his hair, and hastily descended the stair of the little castle, followed by me. There was in every movement of this man when he expressed pleasure or annoyance so much heartiness, such childlike innocence, that I felt myself constantly more attracted to him. It seemed to me that I had loved him for a great while.
When we came away from his estate the sun was already setting behind the distant mountains. We made our way around the house, and crossed the grounds again and through the fields of maize, the gardens and orchards. It was the hour of stopping work, and the laborers in the fields, with their Valencian kerchiefs about their heads, were resting at the doors of their cottages under the sweet fresh tendrils of vine-covered arbors. Their children were climbing upon their knees and dancing about them while the mothers prepared the rice for supper.
CHAPTER VII.
WHEN we arrived at the house, night had already fallen. The family was assembled in the dining-room and the table set. Isabelita dined at her cousin's, and Retamoso and Doña Clara were getting ready to leave without their daughter. Sabas and Castell dined there also. We were joyously welcomed, and all, except perhaps Cristina, attacked me with questions concerning the impression that the country-place had made upon me. I showed myself enthusiastic, not merely for courtesy, but because I really was so. I enlarged heartily upon the enchanting situation, the taste and care with which the place was laid out, the elegance of the Cristina pavilion (I believe that I insisted too much on this point), and I finished by saying that I should not find it unpleasant to spend all my life there.
"In the Cristina pavilion?" asked Castell, with his ironical smile.
"Why not?" I responded boldly, casting a quick look at Martí's wife. She seemed to be thinking of something else at this moment, but I divined, none the less, that she did not lose a word of what I said.
"Then it's your taste to live caged like a canary. I also should like very well to live in that way, but on condition that I should be taken care of by a hand chosen by myself."
Saying this, he also looked out of the corner of his eye at Cristina, who kept her face turned the other way, and looked terribly dignified.
"But I, who am not a sybarite, make no condition whatever," I returned, laughing.
Martí slapped his friend several times upon the shoulder affectionately.