“Never mind, let us go.” The other lady followed on the arm of the old gentleman.
“I thought you were at Suertebella. You told me that you were not to come back till next week.”
“I came back to-day because Papa wrote to me that he was to arrive soon with a Frenchman—a banker—and I had to arrange matters in the house.”
“When I saw you in the box I meant to go round and speak to you; to ask if you had any news of Federico.”
“I!” exclaimed the lady with surprise and annoyance. “He does not write to me; he cannot write to me. I heard from his cousins that he was leaving Cuba to go—how should I know where he is going; no where for any good.”
“And the little girl, how is she?”
“I did not bring her with me; I left her there. Sweet pet, she is not very well, she has been ailing for some days. When are you coming to see her? I want to get back again; I should not have been here now but for Papa.... I cannot bear to leave her. He is going to have a sort of meeting of bankers at our house; you know ... about the national loan. Don Joaquín Onésimo can tell you all about it and I had better say nothing about it.”—Here she lowered her voice so as not to be heard by the couple who were close behind them.—“For he would bore us to death with the national debt, and taxable property, and the mortgage of shares. That man is a deluge of administration; but Papa desired me to be very civil; so this evening we four will dine together—quite a family party. I hate ceremony; I am so accustomed to be alone at Suertebella with my little girl that society tires me and upsets me.”
The two couples made their way down with considerable difficulty. The wet and dripping mob waiting for the rain to cease had no mind to be accommodating to those happier individuals who had carriages.
“Allow me, gentlemen—would you mind...?” And at each entreaty they advanced a step or two.