The new baker applied himself to his work with ardor; with too great ardor, for the dough was sometimes rolled so extremely thin that it was nothing but holes. The servants looked on with broad smiles of admiration, while Marta kept gravely intent upon her task. In the kitchen the atmosphere was suffocating, as it was heated by the red-hot iron covers of the oven, and impregnated with the heavy odors of cooking viands, which disturb and revolt the stomach when it is surfeited, but excite and stimulate it when it is empty.
Ricardo could not keep his tongue still a single instant. While he was passing the rolling-pin over the dough with greater circumspection than if he had been engaged in preparing a magic philter, he did not cease to ask questions and make remarks of all sorts to Marta, principally in regard to the pie which they had undertaken to make: "How many eggs did you put in the flour? How much lard? Who taught you to make pies? How long does it have to stay in the oven?" etc., etc. Marta gave laconic answers, and did not lift her face to all his questions, allowing a vague smile of condescending superiority to hover over her lips.
"Aye! Marta, what would Manolito Lopez say, if he were to see us at this moment?"
"What has he to say? It's nothing to him," replied the girl, slightly blushing.
"Wouldn't he be jealous, to see us so near together?"
"Why?"
"Oh, I know! I know he's in love with you, according to what they say."
"Why do you wish to plague me so?"
"Lassie, everybody is talking about it; it's no invention of mine."
"Very well; then keep it up, as you say."