But before many days were over the benevolent admiration of Señor de Febrero was converted into a keen interest, an irrepressible curiosity to know all that related to “our little country-woman.”
“Tell me how you came to get her?” he asked Señora de Pardiñas, speaking rather with his half-closed and expressive eyes that sparkled behind his glasses than with his voice.
“She was recommended to me by the daughters of Romera, whom you must know.”
“Ah-h-h-h yes, yes! Romera, Romera. Of course.” And he settled his glasses on his well-shaped nose. “But our little friends, the Romeras,” he continued, with the persistence of a judge who is conducting a cross-examination and the obstinacy of an old man who is bent on gaining the information he desires, “they did not bring her from Galicia, did they? I did not know they had ever been there. Is not the girl a Galician?”
“A Galician, yes,” said Doña Aurora, without volunteering any further information.
“She belongs to a decent family, eh?” continued the undaunted Nuño Rasura. “So I should judge, at least—and I have a keen scent,” he added, laying his finger on his classical nose. “As for her language, she speaks well, with the exception of an occasional solecism. Her appearance is refined and lady-like. So she belongs to a decent family, eh?”
“Decent, yes,” Señora Pardiñas was obliged to answer, making a mental reservation.
“But what are they? Artisans? Householders? Employees?”
“No, she is the niece” (Doña Aurora’s voice grew slightly husky) “of a village priest.”
“So, so, so!” exclaimed the dean emphatically. “Did I not say so? The niece of a clergyman! Boccato di cardinale! Those girls are always very pious, admirably brought up, and above temptation. So, so!”