"Eh! does he not?" laughed Vincente. "Always. Ever. Eternally. He has a client—a widow, young, handsome, rich, eh?—one of his own race."
"Ah! you are wise, Vincente!"
Vincente laughed a weak spirituous laugh.
"Ah! it is a transparent fact. Truly—of a verity. Believe me!"
"And this fair client—who is she?"
"Donna Maria Sepulvida!" said Vincente, in a drunken whisper.
"How is this? You said she was of his own race."
"Truly, I did. She is Americana. But it is years ago. She was very young. When the Americans first came, she was of the first. She taught the child of the widower Don José Sepulvida, herself almost a child; you understand? It was the old story. She was pretty, and poor, and young; the Don grizzled, and old, and rich. It was fire and tow. Eh? Ha! Ha! The Don meant to be kind, you understand, and made a rich wife of the little Americana. He was kinder than he meant, and in two years, Carámba! made a richer widow of the Donna."
If Vincente had not been quite thrown by his potations, he would have seen an undue eagerness in Victor's mouth and eyes.
"And she is pretty—tall and slender like the Americans, eh?—large eyes, a sweet mouth?"