“You should try to captivate your uncle’s betrothed,” resumed Portal, after a short silence. “Yes, captivate her, that’s a good idea. Make her love you, my boy—I mean no harm—like a brother, or a son, or however you wish. Anyway, try to make her like you. But do it slyly, skillfully; be polite; no outbreaks or scandal. Your uncle is an old rooster, and she is nearer your own age. But be careful, youngster, for you are a bit like the youthful Werther. Take care, don’t let us have any family dramas.”
CHAPTER V.
I will pass over all the events of the end of the term and examinations, for all that the reader most interested in my future will care to know is that I passed that year; I had my books at my tongue’s end.
The boy from Zamora was likewise successful, but Portal and Trinito did not come off so well; they had not worked hard enough. The Cuban bore his disappointment with his usual indolent composure; but Portal tore out his hair, and laid the blame on the professor’s spite, and on the influence artfully brought to bear in favor of other students, the practical result of which had been to put all the strain on him.
“They have cut me square in two, they have fairly smashed me!” cried the unhappy fellow, forgetting all about that pleasant theory of his in regard to adjusting one’s self, making concessions, conforming and waiting. His calmness in the field of theory turned into furious impatience in actual practice. But he had felt so sure of success that year!
I left him fuming with rage, and went to tell my uncle the good news of my success. I felt greatly pleased, because it seemed to me that every step forward was another victory over my hateful protector, and was like breaking one of the links of the golden chain which bound me. My uncle lived at the Embassador’s hotel, but the concierge told me, with a knowing air: “He is usually at his new house, at this time of day. He does not stay here much of the time. Don’t you know, sir? He has rented a house—but he does not sleep there yet. Where is it, do you ask? Why, Claudio Coello Street, No.——”
I took a car and got off almost at the door of the new dwelling, going up to the second floor. I did not have to ring the bell, for the door was wide open, and in the reception-room there was a man seated Turk-fashion, and sewing strips of fine matting together, with a big needle.
My uncle was pacing up and down in a good-sized parlor, bare of furniture, and was agreeably surprised to see me.
“Halloo, Paul Pry! You here! Come in and take a look at everything.”
“They gave me your address at the hotel, so I came to tell you——”