She overturned her chair in her haste. An instant later the jingling of her keys and the opening and closing of a couple of doors were heard in the distance. A husky voice muttered some unintelligible words in the kitchen. In two minutes she was back again.
"Tell me, and those verses, are you not going to publish them? Am I not going to see them in print?"
"Yes," responded the poet, slowly turning his head to one side and sending a puff of smoke through his lips. "I am going to send them to Vigo, to Roberto Blanquez, to insert them in the Amanecer."
"I am delighted! You will become famous, sweetheart! How many periodicals have spoken of you?"
Segundo laughed ironically and shrugged his shoulders.
"Not many." And with a somewhat preoccupied air he let his gaze wander over the plants and far away over the top of the poplar whose leaves rustled gently in the breeze. The poet pressed his companion's hand mechanically, and the latter returned the pressure with passionate ardor.
"Of course. How do you expect them to speak of you when you don't put your name to your verses?" she said. "They don't know whose they are. They are wondering, likely——"
"What difference does the name make? They could say the same things of the pseudonym I have adopted as of Segundo García. The few people who will trouble themselves to read my verses will call me the Swan of Vilamorta."