The clock struck four. Leopoldina, as if suddenly awakened from sleep, rose.
“I must go,” she said; “it is getting late, and if I am not there he will sit down to dinner without me. We have baked fish to-day, and there is nothing so detestable as cold fish. Good-by—for a little while, is it not so? While Jorge is away I will come to see you very often. Good-by. The French milliner’s address is Ouro Street, over the tobacconist’s, eh!”
Luiza accompanied her to the landing. She had almost reached the front door, when, raising her voice, she said,—
“You think it best to trim the dress with blue, do you not?”
“I have done so with mine,” answered Luiza, leaning over the banister; “it seems to me the most suitable.”
“Good-by,” repeated Leopoldina. “Ouro Street, over the tobacconist’s, you say?”
“Yes, Ouro Street. Good-by.”
And Luiza added in a louder voice,—
“The door to the right,—Madame François.”
Jorge returned at five, and putting his umbrella in a corner, said, from the threshold of Luiza’s room,—