“Until to-morrow,” she said. “Don’t fail.”
She opened her parasol and walked rapidly up the street, towards the Patriarchal. Bazilio lowered the windows of the carriage, drew a deep breath of satisfaction, and stretching out his legs said to the driver,—
“Hey, Pinteos! Quick, to the Gremio!”
In the reading-room his friend the Viscount Reynaldo, who had lived in London and Paris for many years, was buried in an easy-chair languidly reading the “Times.” They had come together from Paris, with the agreement to go also together to Madrid. But Reynaldo was overwhelmed by the heat; he found the temperature of Lisbon melting. He wore dark spectacles, and went about saturated with perfumes on account of the ignoble ill-odor of Portugal, as he said. As soon as he perceived Bazilio, he threw away the newspaper, and letting his arms fall by his side, said in a fatigued voice,—
“And the affair of the cousin? Is it to be settled or not? This is horrible, my dear fellow,—horrible! It is killing me; I must go north—to Scotland! Let us finish at once with this cousin.”
Bazilio threw himself into an easy-chair, and stretching himself, said,—
“Everything is going on well.”
“Make haste, my dear fellow, make haste,” said the viscount.
He took up the “Times” again, yawned, and called for soda.
“English soda!” he added.