“At what hour does the morning train arrive?” asked Lucía suddenly.
“The first train arrives at five or thereabouts.”
The voice of Artegui was dry and hard.
“Shall we go to meet it to see if Señor de Miranda is on it?”
“You may do so if you choose, Señora; as for me, permit me to decline.”
The tone in which he answered was so bitter that Lucía did not know what to reply.
“The employees of the hotel will go,” added Artegui, “whether you do or not, to meet the trains. There is no need for you to rise so early—at least, unless your conjugal tenderness is so great——”
Lucía bent her head, and her face flushed as if a red-hot iron had passed close to it. When they entered the hotel the landlady approached them; her smile, animated by curiosity, was even more amiable and obsequious than before. She explained that she had forgotten a necessary formality—to enter the names of the lady and gentleman, and their nationality, in the hotel register.
“Ignacio Artegui, Madame de Miranda; Spaniards,” said Artegui.
“If the gentleman had a card——” the landlady ventured to say.