"Señora," I murmured, although in confusion, "no doubt she was very beautiful at that time, but I think that the present is better worth while."
Cristina blushed more yet, and bent over her work serious and silent. Her mother did not choose to drop the subject. I did not venture to contradict her openly; I only uttered monosyllables or phrases of doubtful interpretation. At last we gave up this conversation, so dangerous to me. We were told that the hairdresser had come, and Cristina went to her room.
I continued turning over the album, and Doña Amparo went on moving back and forth the ivory needle of her lace-work. We preserved silence; but three or four times, on lifting my eyes, I observed that she was looking at me with irritating persistence. Finally I could see that she laid down her work, doubtless to look at me more to her liking.
"Ribot," she uttered in a low voice.
I thought it well to seem deaf.
"Tss! Ribot."
"What did you say, señora?" I asked, pretending to come out of my great abstraction.
"Look me in the face."
"How? I do not understand."
"Will you look me in the face?"