“In Monina?”
“To Leon—I do not know what to think. It seems to me beyond a doubt that the connection is of old standing.”
María bounced from her chair; there is no other word for that spring, like a stag’s when wounded in his sleep, and she rushed to seize the black merino gown in order to start at once.
“Do not be precipitate, do not be rash,” said her mother, detaining her. “You cannot go at this time of day. It is quite dusk.”
“What does that matter?”
“No, you really must not.”
The evening had in fact come down on them and the room was almost dark. “Lights—bring lights!” cried María, “I cannot bear this gloom.”
“I think that you ought to go,” her mother went on; “but not to-night, to-morrow.”
“Marquesa, have you fully considered the step?” asked her friend. “Will it not be a humiliation; would not silent contempt be more dignified?”
“Oh!” said the affectionate and anxious mother; “I even hope for a reconciliation.”