When Bazilio rejoined him, Reynaldo, stretched at full length in a bath-tub full of water that diffused around a strong odor of eau-de-Lubin, said to him in tones expressive of the physical enjoyment he experienced,—
“A stolen letter, eh?”
“Tell me frankly, Reynaldo; I am really troubled about this matter. What ought I to do?”
“Pack your trunks, my boy,” answered Reynaldo; adding, “this is the result of making love to a cousin who lives in the Patriarchal.”
“Oh!” said Bazilio, impatiently.
“What!” exclaimed the other, supporting himself with both hands on the edge of the bath-tub. “Do you think a woman is to be admired who takes the cook into her confidence, who loses her love-letters, who cries, and asks you for two hundred thousand reis, and who wants to escape the consequences of her folly by running away?”
“Notwithstanding all that, she is a charming woman.”
Reynaldo shrugged his shoulders incredulously. “You are in love,” he replied, stretching himself with a yawn.
Bazilio shook his head impatiently, in denial of so grotesque a supposition.
“Come, now,” said Reynaldo. “Do you want to remain tied to her apron-strings, or do you wish to get rid of her? Tell the truth.”