“Yes,” she said; “but will that woman give up the letters?”
Sebastião scratched his beard again.
“She will have to give them up,” he answered. Luiza looked at him, deeply moved; his countenance appeared to her graced with the perfection of moral beauty, and standing before him,—
“You are going to do this for me, Sebastião,” she said, in melancholy accents,—“for me, who have been so wicked?”
Sebastião colored, and answered, shrugging his shoulders, “There are no wicked women, Senhora; it is the men who are wicked.” And he added presently, “I shall go for the tickets now, so as to get good seats, eh,—seats in the front row?” He smiled in order to tranquillize her.
She put on her hat and lowered her veil, all the while giving utterance to choking sobs that resounded through the parlor. In the hall they found Aunt Joanna waiting with open arms to greet Luiza, whom she kissed repeatedly. What a miracle it was that Luiza had made them a visit, she said; and how well she looked! She was the flower of the bairro.
“Enough, enough, Aunt Joanna,” said Sebastião, gently putting her aside.
How selfish he was! Aunt Joanna returned. He had had her to himself for more than half an hour, and now she wanted her a little while too. He ought to have a wife like that, a modest girl, a lily—
Luiza blushed painfully, unable to utter a word.
And the Senhor Jorge, what had become of him? No one saw anything of him now. And Donna Felicidade?