“Whose children are those?” asked the marquis eagerly, “that red-haired child is Pepa’s, surely?”
“Yes; Monina, come here.”
“Suertebella is here is it not?”
“Quite near.”
“To be sure!” The marquis had an idea—slow of wit as he was and rarely able to boast of an idea of his own; for his logic, like his phrases, was borrowed ready made. He felt a strange light flash through his murky brain; yes! yes! he had an idea, and nothing on earth should persuade him to abandon it! He rose.
“Good-bye,” he said shortly, putting on a face so solemn as to be quite ludicrous.
“Good-bye,” answered Leon in no way disconcerted.
“We will meet again and renew our discussion of the laws of morality,” added Don Agustín, “of my daughter’s position—your desertion—her honour—all these are very serious matters.” And as he drew himself up he seemed to grow taller; the match-box, the water-jar, the chair he sat in, nay, the room itself seemed too small to hold him.
“Very well, discuss it at once!”
“No. We must be calm, very calm. My daughter must put herself under the protection of the law. I shall communicate with my family on the subject. It is a most serious matter ... my honour....”