“Pascuala and Mercedes Romera.”
“Is there nothing more, child?”
“There is a foolish postscript that it is not necessary to read.”
“A foolish postscript?”
“Yes; asking why no one ever sees me now and saying that I must be grown a fine-looking young fellow. The stereotyped, silly compliments——”
“I am always telling you so, child!” exclaimed his mother, with vexation. “You never go to spend ten minutes at the house of these poor ladies, who are so fond of you. They have seen you so petted that they will think it is all my fault. Well, I speak to you often enough about them. Pascuala and Mercedes! If you don’t go, I shall.”
“But, mater terribilis, when I put my foot in that reception room, I get so sleepy that I can do nothing but yawn!”
“Well, they are a pair of saints.”
“Amen; I don’t dispute their sanctity; I am only saying that they are very tiresome and that they never stop talking. They keep up a duet like the Germans in La Diva. ‘Rogelio, how is mamma?’ ‘And how are you getting on with your studies?’” And he imitated the husky voice and Malagan accent of the old maids.
“What nonsense you talk,” said Señora de Pardiñas, repressing a smile, “I don’t know why Pascuala and Mercedes should make you sleepy.”