“In every well-ordered household, Sebastião, there ought to be a child or two.”
Sebastião stroked his beard in silence, while Luiza’s voice, gradually rising, sang,—
“Di ça, di la, per la cità
An diamo a trasnottari.”
This was Jorge’s secret trouble,—he had no children. He desired them ardently. As a bachelor, long before his marriage, he had already dreamed of this happiness,—to have a child. He saw this child, in fancy, balancing himself on his little rosy, dimpled legs, his hair, soft as silk, clustering in curls around his face; or as a robust boy, returning gayly with his books from school, his eyes sparkling as he showed him his good marks; or, better still, as a grown-up girl, with rosy cheeks, dressed in white, her hair hanging in braids over her shoulders, caressing his locks, now grown gray. He thought of the love which he would lavish on this son or daughter, and dreamed of stories he would tell them. And all in vain! He had now been married three years, and he often feared that he would die without tasting of this supreme happiness.
They could hear from the parlor bursts of laughter mingled with the shrill accents of Ernesto, and the notes of the mandolinata which Luiza was repeating, with gay brio, at the piano.
The door of the study opened, and the dark spectacles of Julião appeared in the doorway.
“Good-by,” he said. “It is late, and I must go.” He passed his arm around Jorge’s shoulder, and patting him on the back, added, “Good-by, till we see you again, old fellow. I should like to go with you to breathe the fresh air,—to see the country; but alas!”
And he smiled bitterly.
Jorge accompanied him as far as the head of the stairs; there he embraced him once more, and asked him if he could do anything for him.