In truth her hopes were small, but it was what she most ardently desired.
“A reconciliation! what madness! And you, María, do you believe in a reconciliation?”
“I, I do not know, I cannot tell,” said María, helpless to answer that or any other question. “I do not ask for reconciliation but for punishment.”
“Oh! my dear, we are not acting a melodrama,” cried the marquesa spreading out her hands with the affected solemnity of a white-robed priest on the opera stage. “Peace, peace! be calm María; yes you must go, and go dressed like other folks. That smell of dyed woolen ... pah! it is intolerable.”
The two marquesas laughed at the jest, while Pilar threw the objectionable garment aside. María glanced at it revengefully as much as to say: “Why are you not silk, and well made, and fashionable?”
For the first time since she had renounced worldly things the plain uniform of sanctity, which yesterday she would not have exchanged for royal robes, struck her as ugly.
“The question of dress will be easily solved,” said Pilar, “you and I are much alike in figure; I will bring some of my gowns for you to choose from.”
“And a mantle?”
“Yes, and a hat.”