"Poor little thing!" said Martí, smiling once more. "She is very right. Sabas is a bore."
"He gambles, doesn't he?" I ventured, because of the confidence that had been shown me.
"It would be better to say he is skinned by sharpers. What a fellow! He has lost, and promised to pay, five thousand pesetas."
"He promises it, and you have to pay it."
"Possibly. But what is to be done? It is not all his fault. He has a mother who is too soft."
"And a brother-in-law who is too kind," I thought.
Martí put his arm across my shoulders, and we went thus to the sewing-room to find Cristina and Doña Amparo. They were both there, the first frowning and meditative, the other completely overcome by her emotions. Matilde came in presently to breakfast with them. I perceived that she was sad and seemed as if ashamed. Soon after two ladies dropped in for an intimate call, and conversation cleared up the heavy atmosphere of the room.
Cristina went out for a moment to attend to some of her domestic matters, and I noted that she left her handkerchief forgotten upon her chair. Then, with the dissimulation and ability of an accomplished thief, I went over to it, sat down as if absent-mindedly, and when nobody noticed, I took the precious object and hid it in my pocket. Cristina appeared again, and I noticed that she glanced about at all the chairs in search of her handkerchief; then she shot a glance at me, and, I firmly believe, guessed from my manner that I had it. Then not daring to ask me for it aloud and at the same time unwilling to give up and let it pass that she allowed me to have it, she went about searching in all the corners of the room, asking:
"Where can my handkerchief be?"
Nobody but me observed it, because all the rest were absorbed in conversation. At last I saw her sit down in her chair, take up her work, and go on with it in silence.