The bell rang. Was it he? She folded the letter, put it into her pocket, and waited with a beating heart. Masculine steps sounded on the floor of the parlor. She looked up with radiant eyes. It was Sebastião,—Sebastião, looking somewhat pale,—who affectionately pressed her hands in his. Was she better? Had she slept well? he asked.
“Yes, thanks,” she answered; “I am better.”
She seated herself on the sofa, her face suffused with blushes; she was scarcely conscious of what she was saying, and repeated with a vague smile, “I am much better.” And she thought to herself, “Now, this tiresome man will stay here all day.”
“You did not go out?” asked Sebastião, seating himself in an arm-chair, his hat in his hand.
No; she was rather tired, she answered.
Sebastião passed his hand slowly over his forehead, and, in a voice that his embarrassment rendered deeper than usual,—
“I understand,” he said, “that you do not want for society.”
“No,” returned Luiza, casting down her eyes and arranging the folds of her dress. “My cousin has arrived in Lisbon. It is so long since we have seen each other! We were brought up together, and he comes to see me almost every day.”
Sebastião drew his chair a little nearer to the sofa, and said in a low voice,—
“It was to speak of this matter that I have come.”