When she heard what his intentions were, Leocadia's countenance cleared up, and rising, radiant with happiness, she ran to the kitchen. Flores was washing plates and cups and saucers by the light of a lamp, knocking them angrily together and rubbing savagely.
"The coffee-pot—did you clean it?"
"Presently, presently," responded the old woman. "Anyone would think that one was made of wood, that one is never to get tired—that one can do things flying."
"Give it to me, I will clean it. Put more wood on the fire; it is going out and the beefsteak will be spoiled." And so saying Leocadia washed the coffee-pot, cleaning the filter with a knitting-needle, and put some fresh water down to boil in a new saucepan, throwing more wood on the fire.
"Yes, heap on wood," growled Flores, "as we get it for nothing!"
Leocadia, who was slicing some potatoes for the beefsteak, paid no attention to her. When she had cut up as many as she judged necessary, she washed her hands hastily in the jar of the drain, full of dirty water, on whose surface floated large patches of grease. She then hurried to the parlor where Segundo was waiting for her, and soon afterward Flores brought in the supper, which they ate, seated at a small side-table. By the time they had got to the coffee Segundo began to be more communicative. This coffee was what Leocadia most prided herself on. She had bought a set of English china, an imitation lacquer-box, a vermeil sugar-tongs and two small silver spoons, and she always placed on the table with the coffee a liquor-stand, supplied with cumin, rum, and anisette. At the third glass, of cumin, seeing the poet amiable and propitious, Leocadia put her arm around his neck. He drew back brusquely, noticing with strong repulsion the odor of cooking and of parsley with which the garments of the schoolmistress were impregnated.
At this moment precisely Minguitos, after letting his shoes drop on the floor, was drawing the coverlet around him with a sigh. Flores, seated on a low chair, began to recite the rosary. The sick child required, to put him to sleep, the monotonous murmur of the husky voice which had lulled him to rest, ever since his mother had ceased to keep him company at bedtime. The Ave Marias and Gloria Patris, mumbled rather than pronounced, little by little dulled thought and, by the time the litany was reached, sleep had stolen over him, and, half-unconscious, it was with difficulty he made the responses to the barbarous phrases of the old woman: "Juana celi—Ora pro nobis—Sal-es-enfermorun—nobis—Refajos pecadorum—bis—Consolate flitorum—sss——"
The only response was the labored, restless, uneven breathing that came through the sleeping boy's half-closed lips. Flores softly put out the tallow candle, took off her shoes, in order to make no noise, and stole out gently, feeling her way along the dining-room wall. From the moment in which Minguitos fell asleep there was no more rattling of dishes in the kitchen.