“In a fortnight I will come back for your answer,” responded Miranda, discreetly, taking his hat to go.
He passed the fortnight in a Satanic frame of mind, for it was undoubtedly ridiculous for a man of his pretensions and his rank to have asked in marriage the daughter of a grocer and to be obliged to wait in the ante-chamber of the shop, so to say, until they should deign to open the door to admit him. Meanwhile Señor Joaquin, reading his newspaper and sipping his coffee alone, missed him greatly, and the idea of the marriage began to take root in his mind. Every day he thought the friend of Colmenar more and more desirable for a son-in-law. Notwithstanding this, however, he did what people usually do who desire to follow their inclinations without bearing the responsibility of their actions—he took counsel with some friends in regard to the matter, hoping to shelter himself under their approbation. In this expectation he was disappointed. Father Urtazu, who was the first person that he consulted, exclaimed, with his Navarrese frankness:
“For the old cat the tender mouse! The sweet-tongued, smooth-faced Don knows very well what he is about. But don’t you see, unhappy man, that the old fop might be Lucía’s father? Heaven knows what adventures he has had in the course of his life! Holy Virgin! who can tell what stories he may not have hidden away in the pockets of his coat!”
“But what would you do if you were in my case, Father Urtazu?”
“I? Take a year to think of it instead of a fortnight, and another year after that, for whatever might chance to turn up.”
“By the Constitution! You have not observed the merits of Señor Aurelio, father.”
“The merits—the merits—pretty merits, indeed! Pish, pish! Unless it be a merit to go dressed like a dandy, displaying a couple of inches of his shirt cuffs, and giving himself the airs of a young man, when he is older-looking than I, for, though it be true that my hair is gray, at least the tree has not dropped its leaves!”
And Father Urtazu pulled with energy the stout iron-gray locks that grew on his temples, bristly as brambles.
“What does the child herself say about it?” he asked, suddenly.
“I have not yet spoken to her——”