It was the tobacconist, with her long black gown, her oily, lemon-colored face, and her sad smile.
“Where may the Senhora Juliana be going?” she said. “To take a walk?”
Then she complimented Juliana on her black parasol with its bone handle; she thought it in good taste. And how was her health?
Bad; she had just had an attack, and was going to see the doctor. But the tobacconist had not an atom of confidence in the doctors; it was throwing money in the street to consult them. She cited the illness of her husband, the expenses,—a gold-mine! And what for? To see him suffer and die as if nothing had been done for him. It was a waste of money that she had not yet forgotten.
And she sighed, “Well, we must take things as they come.” And what was there new at her house?
“Nothing.”
“Tell me, Senhora Juliana, who is that young man who goes there every day?”
“The cousin of the mistress,” responded Juliana.
“They are very fond of each other!”
“So it would seem.” Then she added, coughing, “Well, good afternoon, Senhora Helena.” And she continued on her way, muttering, “Go ask some one else for news, you scarecrow; you will get nothing out of me!”