“Quite well,” she returned. “He comes here often. The poor fellow is very lonely in Lisbon. He has been accustomed to live abroad.”
“True,” said Sebastião.
“And Jorge, has he written to you?” asked Luiza.
“I received a letter from him yesterday.”
She too had received a letter. They spoke of Jorge, of his ennui in Alemtejo, of the account he gave in his letters of Sebastião’s eccentric relative, of the length of time he would still remain away.
“I miss the rascal,” said Sebastião.
Luiza coughed; she was slightly pale, and she passed her hand from time to time across her forehead, closing her eyes with an air of weariness.
“I have come, my dear friend—” Sebastião began abruptly, as if he had adopted a sudden resolution. But seeing her seated on the edge of the sofa, her head bent down, her hand pressed to her eyes, he added,—
“What is the matter with you? Are you in pain?”
“A sudden headache. I felt it coming on in the street.”