They continued conversing in a natural tone and with animation. Luiza asked Bazilio what he had been doing in all these years, and if he intended to remain in Lisbon. Then she opened the blinds to let more light into the room. They sat down, he on the sofa, in a languid attitude; she near him, on the edge of an arm-chair, her hands trembling, her nerves unstrung.
He had abandoned, he said, the forced labor of exile, and had come to breathe awhile the air of old Europe. He had been in Constantinople, in the Holy Land, in Rome. The last year he had devoted to Paris. He had just come from there,—from delightful Paris!
He spoke tranquilly, leaning towards Luiza with a certain air of familiarity; his feet, encased in patent-leather shoes, were stretched out comfortably before him on the carpet.
Luiza observed him attentively, and thought him more bronzed than before, and more manly looking. A few threads of silver shone here and there among his black locks, but his mustache still preserved its former proud and intrepid air, his eyes their liquid softness. She glanced at the pin—a horseshoe set with pearls—in his black silk cravat, and at the little stars embroidered on his silk stockings. Decidedly, Brazil had not caused him to deteriorate; he had come back looking more interesting than ever.
“But you—” he said, smiling and leaning towards her; “tell me of yourself. Are you happy? You have a little one—”
“I!” answered Luiza, laughing. “No; who has told you that?”
“I was told so. Is your husband to be long away?”
“Three or four weeks.”
“Four weeks! Almost widowhood!”
He asked permission to come and see her often of a morning, to have a chat with her.