The one who took the least pleasure in the dissertations of the rich ship-owner was, as far as I could see, Cristina. Although she forced herself to hide it, I was not long in divining that the science of her husband's friend and associate did not interest her. She often grew absent-minded and, whenever she could find a plausible pretext, she would leave the room. Can it be supposed that this lack of reverence for a representative of science lowered her in my eyes? I think not!
I noted further that, although Cristina joined apparently the projects of her husband, and never contradicted him when he discussed them with his usual frankness before us, she showed lively vexation when Castell encouraged them. When the millionaire, therefore, would begin a pompous eulogy of Martí, praising in affected language his clear sight, his decision and activity, Cristina's face would change; her cheeks would lose their delicate rose-color; her brow would be knitted, and her beautiful eyes would take on a strange fixity. Usually she could not stand it to the end. She would get up and leave the room abruptly. The good Emilio, intoxicated with gratitude and pleasure, took no notice of this.
What a soul was that of this man, how noble, how sensitive, how generous! Chance brought to my knowledge a magnanimous action that raised him still more in my eyes. With the freedom that he had given me from the first, I entered his private office one day unannounced at a rather inopportune moment. His mother-in-law sat sobbing (for a change) in an arm-chair, and he with his back towards the door was opening his safe. On hearing me he turned and quickly shut the door of the safe. He seemed a little more serious and thoughtful than usual, but the generous expression of his face had not disappeared. He greeted me, making an effort to appear cheerful; then turning to his mother-in-law and putting one hand upon her shoulder, he said affectionately:
"Come, mamma, there is nothing to grieve about. Everything will be arranged this afternoon, without fail. Come now, go to Cristina and rest a little. You must not make yourself ill."
"Thank you, thank you!" murmured the suffering lady, without ceasing to weep and blow her nose.
Recovering finally at least a part of her energies, she left the place, not without giving me a strong, convulsive grasp of the hand and drawing her son-in-law to the door for three or four kisses. He shook his head and said, smiling:
"Poor woman!"
I gave him a glance of interrogation, not venturing to put the question in words. Martí shrugged his shoulders and murmured:
"Tss! It's the same as always. Her son abuses the bounty of this poor woman and it gives her a great deal of trouble."
As I perceived that he did not wish to go into further explanations, I refrained from inquiries, and we talked of other things. But a moment later Cristina came into the office, not in a good temper, and asked him: