The statesman was slower in alighting. His adherents looked at him with surprise. He had changed greatly since his last visit to Vilamorta—then in the midst of the revolution—some eight or ten years before. His iron-gray hair, whiter on the temples, heightened the yellow hue of his complexion; the whites of his eyes, too, were yellow and streaked with little red veins; and his furrowed and withered countenance bore unmistakable traces of the anxieties of the struggle for social position, the vicissitudes of the political bench, and the sedentary labors of the forum. His frame hung loosely together, being wanting in the erectness which is the sign of physical vigor. When the handshakings began, however, and the "Delighted to see you——" "At last——" "After an age——" resounded around him, the dying gladiator revived, straightened himself up, and an amiable smile parted his thin lips, lending a pleasing expression to the now stern mouth. He even opened his arms to Genday, who squirmed in them like an eel, and he clapped the Alcalde on the back. García, the lawyer, tried to attract attention to himself, to distinguish himself among the others, saying in the serious tone of one who expresses an opinion in a very delicate matter:
"There, upstairs, upstairs now, to rest and to take some refreshment."
At last the commotion calmed down, the great man entering the apothecary's, followed by García, Genday, the Alcalde, and Segundo.
They seated themselves in Agonde's little parlor, respectfully leaving to Don Victoriano the red rep sofa, around which they drew their chairs in a semi-circle. Shortly afterward the ladies made their appearance, and, now without her hat, it could be seen that Señora de Comba was young and beautiful, seeming rather the elder sister than the mother of the little girl. The latter, with her luxuriant hair falling down her back and her precocious womanly seriousness, had the aspect of a sickly plant, while her mother, a smiling blonde, seemed overflowing with health. They spoke of the journey, of the fertile borders of the Avieiro, of the weather, of the road; the conversation was beginning to languish, when Agonde's sister entered opportunely, preceded by the housekeeper of the priest, carrying two enormous trays filled with smoking cups of chocolate, for supper was a meal unknown to the hosts. When the trays were set on the table and the chocolate handed around, the company grew more animated. The Vilamortans, finding a congenial subject on which to exercise their oratorical powers, began to press the strangers, to eulogize the excellence of the viands, and calling Señora de la Comba by her baptismal name, and adding an affectionate diminutive to that of the little girl, they launched forth into exclamations and questions.
"Is the chocolate to your taste, Nieves?"
"Do you like it thin or thick?"
"Nieves, take that morsel of cake for my sake; you will find it excellent; only we have the secret of making it."
"Come, Victoriniña, don't be bashful; that fresh butter goes very well with the hot bread."
"A morsel of toasted sponge-cake. Ah-ha! You don't have cake like that in Madrid, eh?"
"No," answered the girl, in a clear and affected voice. "In Madrid we eat crullers and doughnuts with our chocolate."