“The neighborhood is a bad one,” Sebastião ventured to remark.
“It makes me tremble to think of it; but what is to be done?” said Jorge. “I am accustomed to the house, and it is my own; I have arranged it according to my taste; it is an economy to live here. If it were not for all this, I should not remain here a day longer.”
“The neighborhood is in truth a detestable one,” repeated Sebastião.
“Luiza, poor girl,” continued Jorge, “is an angel; but she is like a child, she knows nothing of the world, and owing to her amiable disposition she allows herself to be imposed upon. This is what happens in Leopoldina’s case. They were school-fellows, and continued to be friends, and now Luiza has not the courage to break with her. It is all the result of her timidity of character, of her amiability; I can understand it very well. But society has its exactions. Therefore, Sebastião,” he added, after a pause, “if you should have cause to suspect, during my absence, that Leopoldina comes here, give some good advice to my wife. She does not think; she allows herself to be influenced without stopping to consider. It would be well, therefore, that some one should speak a word of warning to her occasionally, so that she may not transgress the bounds of propriety without knowing it. This is what I wanted to ask of you, Sebastião,—come to accompany her occasionally, to play the piano with her; and if you should chance to see Leopoldina sailing in these waters, say to Luiza, ‘Be careful, Senhora; it is better to avoid an annoyance.’ If she feels she has some one else to support her she will be firm; otherwise, through her weakness of character she will tolerate Leopoldina’s visits. I am sure these things make her suffer; but she has not the courage to say to that creature, ‘I do not wish to see you; go!’ Can you understand this? She has courage for nothing; her hands tremble on the least occasion, and a lump rises in her throat; she is a woman, a true woman. Do not forget my recommendation, Sebastião.”
“You may go away with a tranquil mind. Don’t forget anything.”
They could hear the sound of the piano from the parlor, and the pure fresh voice of Luiza singing a mandolinata:—
“Amici la notte è bella,
La luna va spautari.”
“Come to accompany her once in a while,” repeated Jorge; “she will be so lonely, poor child!”
He took a few turns up and down the room, smoking, and then, with bent head, said, laying his hand on Sebastião’s shoulder,—