“I have no plan for reconciliation; it is out of the question,” said her son-in-law shortly as the Marquis de Fúcar came into the room.
The master of the house, putting aside his cares and anxieties to fulfil the duties of hospitality and do the honours of his splendid house, came to make his bow to the Tellerias and condole with them on María’s illness, begging them to consider the house at their disposal as long as it might suit them to stay. And as the melancholy cause of their visit was not a matter of a few hours, the open-handed gentleman, anxious to give his hospitality a character worthy of his European notoriety, begged the trio to remain the day—to pass the night—to stay the next day and the next night, for as long as they might wish; pressed them to breakfast—lunch—dine—sup;—to sit down and rest, to lie down and sleep—to make themselves completely at home, since here were tables, a larder, a cellar and servants—rooms enough to hold half the human race—horses to ride—flowers to pluck—etc., etc.
“Oh, thank you, thank you! How good you are!”
And María’s mother pressed Fúcar’s hand in speechless emotion. On such occasions, silence, a glance to Heaven, a silent clasp of the hand are more eloquent than a hundred phrases in praise of the generosity of those “who allow us to forget that we live in an age tainted by Materialism.” The lady endeavoured to give her face the expression which, in her own opinion, was most becoming to her peculiar style of beauty, or rather to those faded remains of it which were not yet devoid of brilliancy when art, dress, sentiment, and judicious gesture set them in the most becoming light. In talking on indifferent subjects with her host she contrived to lead him into a sentimental vein with so much grace and persuasiveness that the stock-broker listened to her with enchantment.
Meanwhile Telleria had led Leon to a window, and was saying to him with ponderous dignity:
“Matters have come to such a pass, and your behaviour is apparently so preposterous, that I really must insist on your giving me a satisfactory explanation; otherwise it will be necessary to take it up on the ground....”
“On the ground of honour!” said Leon sarcastically. “But you see it would be difficult for you and me to meet on that ground.”
“A father-in-law, of course.—It is not that I have any wish to augment the scandal by adding another and a worse one. We have the greatest confidence in your gentlemanly feeling, and that Castilian nobility which we Spaniards can never wholly belie, even if we wish it. And if God should touch your heart, and you were to effect a permanent reconciliation with my beloved daughter....”
“That I shall never do.”
“Very well.—Then....” The marquis looked at his son-in-law with an eye which—considering the serio-comic aspect of the man—might fairly be called terrible.