“I beg your pardon, Senhor Sebastião.”
“I like this João VI. How much is it worth?” Paula replied without hesitation,—
“Seven thousand two hundred; but it is a masterpiece.”
Sebastião thought it dear; but Paula showed him the price written on a slip of paper at the back. He explained to him the merits of the picture, pointed out its beauties, spoke of his honor as a merchant, characterized others of his fellow-merchants as bandits without conscience, gave him to understand that the portrait had belonged to the house of Queluz, and that he had bought it at public auction. Sebastião interrupted him, saying,—
“Very well, I will take it. Send it to my house, and the bill with it.”
“You will have a fine work of art.”
Sebastião looked around the shop. He wished to speak of Donna Felicidade’s dislocated foot, and sought for an opportunity of introducing the subject. He looked at some Indian vases, at a large china jar, and seeing an invalid’s chair,—
“How nice that would be for Donna Felicidade,” he exclaimed,—“a handsome and comfortable easy-chair!”
Paula opened wide his eyes.
“For Donna Felicidade Noronha,” replied Sebastião, in answer to his mute inquiry, “to recline in. Is it possible you do not know that she hurt her foot, and has been and is still very ill?”