ONE morning, some days afterwards, Jorge, who had forgotten that it was a feast-day, found the office closed, on going to the Department, and returned home. Joanna was standing at the door, talking to an old woman who was selling eggs. The hall door was open, and entering without ringing, he surprised Juliana comfortably seated on the sofa, reading the newspaper.
On seeing him she turned crimson, and rising to her feet stammered,—
“I am not to blame, Senhor; I have just had a violent palpitation,—”
“So violent that you sat down to read the newspaper,” returned Jorge, mechanically grasping his cane. “Where is the senhora?”
“She must be in the dining-room,” answered Juliana, taking up the broom and hastily beginning to sweep.
Luiza was not in the dining-room. Jorge found her in the laundry, in a morning wrapper, her hair in disorder, very busy ironing, and with an expression of dejection on her countenance.
“Can it be possible that you are ironing?” he exclaimed.
Luiza colored, and laid down the iron. As Juliana was sick, she said, and the clothes had accumulated—
“Let us settle this matter at once,” returned Jorge. “Who is mistress here, I should like to know, and who is servant?”
The sternness with which he spoke sent the color from Luiza’s cheek. “What do you mean?” she stammered.