“What are you talking about, Papa?” asked María bewildered.
“I,” continued Don Agustin, laying his hand on his burly person to attest his honour, “I am determined to bring all the energy of my character to bear on the one object of avoiding a scandal which must bring discredit on us all, and place you in the most ridiculous position.”
“Agustin,” said Milagros, unable to conceal her vexation, “you had better go and study the museum. You are not wanted here.” And she gave emphasis to the hint by nudging her husband’s elbow to convey to him that the time had not come for any display of energy or avoidance of scandal. As a woman and a mother she had understood the illusion in which Leon had chosen to leave his wife, and approving it, endeavoured to keep it up.
“What museum?” asked María more and more puzzled, and seizing at once on any clue that might strengthen her awakened suspicions.
“A museum not far off,” stammered the marquis taking his wife’s hint and acting upon it to the best of his intelligence, for with all his faults he was devoted to his daughter. “One that has lately been opened at Suertebella....”
María looked from one to another in blank astonishment, questioning them with dull bewilderment in her eyes, while her lips could hardly frame the enquiries that formed themselves in her brain.
“Suertebella—near this?” she murmured. “Tell me one thing.”
“What?”
“What is it, my child?”
“How is it that I seem to feel the stone and mortar of that house here—in my very being; I feel its walls....”