Juliana went to give her order to the cook. “She wants coffee, and it must be strong, she says. The devil’s in the whole lot of them! They are all the same,—one as bad as another.”
The following day was Sunday. As Juliana was getting ready to go to Mass, Luiza called her, and standing at the door of her room, half-dressed, gave her a letter for Donna Felicidade. As a general rule she sent her messages to her friend verbally; the curiosity of Juliana was therefore aroused by this closed and sealed envelope, bearing Luiza’s initial,—a Gothic L, surrounded by a garland of roses.
“Is there any answer?” she asked.
“No.”
When Juliana returned at ten o’clock, Luiza asked her if it was warm out, and if there was much dust. A dark-colored straw hat adorned with musk-roses was lying on the table.
Juliana, answered that there was some wind, but that it would probably cease before the afternoon.
“She has some excursion planned; she is going to meet that young man,” thought Juliana.
But Luiza, attired in her morning-gown, passed the whole day between her bedroom and the parlor; now reclining on a sofa reading, now absently playing fragments of a waltz on the piano. At four she dined, and shortly afterwards the cook went out. Juliana passed the afternoon at the window of the dining-room. Dressed in her new gown, her stiffly starched petticoats, and her best collar, she leaned her elbows, unsmiling, on the railing of the balcony, over which she had carefully laid her handkerchief.
At eight, Juliana entered Luiza’s room, and was struck with amazement to see her dressed in black, and with her hat on. She had already lighted the lamp, and the candles on her dressing-table, and seated on the edge of the sofa, was drawing on her gloves with a serious air. Her countenance revealed a feverish impatience.
“Has the wind ceased?” she asked.