A month later, when Jorge came home, he said to Sebastião with a radiant countenance,—
“I need not tell you that this house is yours. You are to live with us.”
But he could never succeed in making Sebastião feel himself quite at home in his house. He rang the door-bell with timidity. He grew red in Luiza’s presence. The old bear of the Latin class reappeared. Jorge endeavored to make him feel at his ease with Luiza, to oblige him to smoke his pipe before her, and to prevent him from saying at every moment, “Senhora.”
He never came to dine with them without a previous invitation. When Jorge was not at home his visits were silent and short. He thought himself so stupid that he was afraid of being tiresome.
To-night, when he entered the dining-room, Joanna asked him for Luiza. She adored Luiza; she called her an angel,—a white lily.
“How is she? Have you seen her?” she asked.
Sebastião did not want to answer, as he had done yesterday, that he did not go in because there were visitors; and, leaning forward, he began to play with the ears of Trajan, his old hunting-dog, saying,—
“She is well, Joanna; she is well. How should she be? She could not be better.”
At this time Luiza received a letter from Jorge, dated in Portel, full of complaints of the heat, and the bad inns, of stories about Sebastião’s eccentric relative, of remembrances and kisses for herself. This sheet of paper, covered with minute characters that brought Jorge vividly before her mind, took Luiza by surprise. The recollection of his face, his voice, his love for her, caused her a sensation that was almost painful. All the shame of her cowardice and weakness in regard to Bazilio presented itself forcibly to her imagination. How horrible to allow herself to be kissed and embraced by him while he devoured her with his glances! She recalled everything,—his attitude, the ardor of his hands, the sweetness of his voice. Insensibly and by degrees these recollections faded away, and Luiza, dropping her arms by her side, let her thoughts drift idly, abandoning herself to the lassitude which they produced in her. But the thought of Jorge presented itself to her again, hurting her like the sudden stroke of a whip. She rose nervously and began to walk up and down the room; she felt a vague desire to weep, to cry out, to break something—
“Ah, no! this is shameful,” she said at last, bursting into bitter tears. “It must be ended at once!”