Luiza lifted her eyes to his; she saw his open and friendly countenance, full of sympathy; perhaps, in a burst of sorrow, she would have told him everything, but Jorge came out of the study, she smiled, shrugged her shoulders, and slowly took up her knitting again.
On the following Sunday evening there was the usual causerie in Jorge’s parlor. Julião gave an account of his examination. Not to enlarge upon the subject, he had pronounced a lucid and concise discourse, lasting two hours. Dr. Figueiredo had told him that he ought to have made his style a little more florid. “What would you have?” said Julião, shrugging his shoulders with contempt. “Those literary men cannot speak for five minutes about the thigh-bone, without bringing in ‘spring flowers’ or the ‘progress of civilization’!”
“The Portuguese have a mania for rhetoric,” said Jorge.
Juliana entered with a letter. It was from the counsellor. There was a moment’s uneasiness. It was only an excuse from Accacio, however, for not being able to go, as he had promised, to enjoy a chat in the house of the excellent Donna Luiza. Some urgent work kept him at the post of duty. He sent remembrances to Sebastião and Julião, and affectionate regards to the interesting Donna Felicidade.
A wave of carmine inundated the face of the excellent lady. She coughed, very much agitated, changed her seat twice, played the “Pearl of Ophir” with one finger on the piano, and at last, unable to control herself longer, asked Luiza, in a low voice, to go with her to her room, for she had a secret to tell her.
“What do you say of his letter?” she cried, when they entered.
“That I congratulate you,” responded Luiza, laughing.
“The charm!” said Donna Felicidade. “The charm is beginning to work.” And she added in a lower tone, “I went to the house of the man I told you of,—the Gallician.”
Luiza did not comprehend.
“The man of Tuy. I took him my likeness and Accacio’s, and he left the city a week ago. The woman has begun already to stick the needles in the heart.”