“On account of your affairs.”
“Thanks,” he said, leaning forward, and looking at her with severity. He puffed out the smoke of his cigarette with violence, and walked up and down the floor of the parlor with long strides. Suddenly he came over to her, and sitting down beside her told her that she was in truth unjust; that if he was in Lisbon, it was solely on her account. And throwing into his voice an expression of tenderness, he asked her if she indeed felt for him the least little bit of love,—“so much as that, even,” showing her the point of his nail.
They both began to laugh.
“That much? Perhaps!”
Luiza’s breast heaved with emotion.
Bazilio, taking her hand in his, began to examine her nails, admiring them, and recommended her to use a certain ointment for the purpose of giving them more brilliancy, and kissing the tips of her fingers, he lightly bit the little finger, saying it was very sweet, at the same time putting hastily in its place a stray lock of her hair. With a supplicating glance he said he had a petition to prefer.
“What is it?”
“To take a drive with me into the country. It must be so charming now!”
Luiza arranged the folds of her morning-gown in silence.
“It would be very easy,” he continued. “You meet me at some place, at a distance from here, of course. I will wait for you with a carriage; you enter it, and we drive away.”