“Never, Senhora,” he answered, bowing, “never. And, believe me, to my great regret; for I have been told that there are curiosities there of the first order.”
He delicately took between his thumb and finger a small pinch of the golden snuff he was in the habit of using, and added, with a majestic air, “It possesses, besides, a great source of wealth in its hogs.”
“Jorge,” said Julião, from the corner where he sat, “find out how much the titular doctor of Evora makes a year.”
The counsellor, always well informed, approached Julião, still holding his pinch of snuff between his thumb and finger. “He must make six hundred thousand reis,[1] Senhor Zuzarte,” he said; “I have it so stated in my notes. But why this question?” he added, straightening himself. “Do you desire to abandon Lisbon?”
Every one present joined in expressing disapproval of such an intention.
“Ah, Lisbon is always Lisbon,” sighed Donna Felicidade.
“A city of marble and of granite, as our immortal historian has said,” added the counsellor with emphasis.
He inhaled his pinch of snuff, spreading out his fingers in the form of a fan. His hand, thin and pale, but well cared for, was adorned with a seal ring.
“The counsellor would no more abandon Lisbon than would the hand of God the Father,” said Donna Felicidade, blushing as she spoke.
“I was born in Lisbon, Senhora, and I am a son of Lisbon to the bottom of my soul,” answered the counsellor, turning slowly towards her, and bowing, with eyes bent on the floor.