“Yes—a little too large.”
The counsellor said with authority,—
“Great authors—the illustrious Tasso, our own Camoens—are represented in their portraits wearing wreaths.”
“Take my advice, Senhor Ledesma,” said Julião, rising, and clapping him on the shoulder, “and have your likeness taken with your wreath on.”
They all laughed, and Ernesto, somewhat annoyed, said, unfolding his perfumed handkerchief,—
“Senhor Zuzarte will have his jest.”
“That is the penalty of fame, my friend. The victorious generals of ancient Borne kept by their side a slave whose business it was to remind them that they were but mortal.”
“I think,” said Luiza, smiling, “that this is an honor for the family.”
Jorge was of the same opinion. He was walking up and down the room, smoking, and he paused to say that he had as much pleasure in the wreath as if it were he himself who was to wear it.
Ernesto turned towards him,—