“Why not?” she answered. “You are the only relative I have left in the world.”
And this was the case. The conversation then took a tinge of sadness, turning on more familiar themes. They spoke of Luiza’s mother, Aunt Jójó, as Bazilio used to call her. Luiza told him how she had expired, tranquilly and without a sigh, in her easy-chair. These recollections caused her to shed a few tears.
“Where is she buried?” asked Bazilio. “In our vault, I suppose,” he added gravely, pulling down with a solemn air the cuffs of his colored shirt.
“Yes,” responded Luiza.
“I must go there—poor Aunt Jójó! But you were going out,” he said, after a few moments’ silence, half rising from the sofa.
“No,” she answered, “no. I was only going to the house of a friend to pass away an hour or so.” And she took off her hat. As she did so, Bazilio noticed the undulating grace of her figure.
“In other times I was the one intrusted with the task of putting on and taking off your gloves,” he said, caressing the ends of his mustache. “I think,” he added, “that I should still continue to enjoy the exclusive privilege of doing so.”
“I think not,” interrupted Luiza, laughing.
“Ah, true; times have changed,” said Bazilio, slowly, with eyes fixed on the carpet.
Then they spoke of Collares; his first thought on arriving in Lisbon had been of going to see the villa. Was the swing under the chestnut-tree still there? And the white rose-bush beside the plaster Cupid with the broken wing,—was it still in existence?