What was it? What was the matter with her? he asked. He caught her in his arms and embraced her, saying to her in passionate accents,—
“Shall we fly together?”
The bright tears rolling down her beautiful countenance made her look still more interesting, and gave to his feeling for her a tinge of sadness.
“Fly with me now! Let us go to the ends of the earth!” he cried.
“Don’t talk nonsense!” she murmured, sighing. She leaned back in the carriage silently, and covered her face with her hands.
“The fact is,” he said to himself, “that I do talk a great deal of nonsense.”
Luiza dried her tears with her handkerchief.
“This is only nervousness,” she said. “Let us go back. Shall we? I do not feel well; tell the driver to turn back!”
Bazilio obeyed. The drive back was somewhat silent. Luiza complained of a slight headache. He took her hands in his and repeated his former expressions of tenderness. He called her his dove, his ideal, and as he did so he said to himself that she was his.
They stopped in the Praça da Alegria. Luiza glanced cautiously around, and then sprang quickly out of the carriage.