Then they were silent, both somewhat embarrassed.
“To speak frankly,” said Luiza at last, “I am very glad of his departure—on account of that nonsense of the neighbors. Lately I scarcely saw anything of him. He surprised me by a visit yesterday,—to say good-by.”
She felt that she was making her story of a platonic affection and an interchange of letters impossible; but a sentiment stronger than herself impelled her to make her relations with Bazilio appear as slight as possible; and she added,—
“We are friends, it is true, but our natures are very different; Bazilio is cold and selfish. Besides, our friendship was never a very intimate one.”
She paused abruptly; she felt that she was getting beyond her depth.
Sebastião remembered having heard her say that they were brought up together; but, after all, the way in which she spoke now of her cousin was the best possible proof that there had never been anything between them. He almost reproached himself for the unjust doubts he had entertained.
“And he is not coming back, you say?”
“He did not say so, but I do not think he is. When he finds himself in Paris—”
And suddenly remembering the letter she had just read, “So you are Jorge’s confidant,” she said.
“Senhora, can you believe—” began Sebastião, smiling.