“At what time will you start?”
“At once.”
“No, to-morrow at noon,” said the mother, “we must not neglect the proprieties—the proper time and opportunity.”
“I must go home to dinner, and I will return afterwards,” said Pilar. “I will bring you what I have that is most suitable, for you to choose from. We will make you quite beautiful. The worst thing that could happen would be for Pepa Fúcar to laugh at you for fun. I shall be back again in an hour and a half; we have no one coming to see us this evening, and my husband is dining out with Higadillos and some other bull-fighters, and a couple of deputies. Au revoir, my dear—good-night, Milagros.” She kissed them both and disappeared.
During her absence the marquesa ate a little dinner; María none, though there was no fast enjoined by the church almanac. Pilar by-and-bye returned with a carriage-load of elegant raiment—beautiful dresses, mantles, parasols, hats; and that nothing might be wanting she even brought boots of the latest make and silk stockings haute nouveauté. This was the sack-cloth worn by this coquettish votary of the faith!
The servants and the maid brought everything up and the sofas and chairs were covered. Pilar, who was a capital show-woman told them to place this gown here, and that hat there, so as to display them to the best advantage. María sat gazing seriously enough at the gay colours, the wonderful shapes and whimsical decorations devised by French milliners. She looked, but she did not seem to see.
“Well what do you think? Which dress will you wear?”
“This is pretty,” said María pointing at one at random. “Who made it for you?” And then again she sat gloomily staring before her. She was like a reveller who has been long absent and is astonished to find the fashions changed.
“What a tight shape!” she said.
“This pearl-grey will suit you.”