“No; what is it?”
“A new book; but one of a somewhat daring character. I advise you not to read it.”
Donna Felicidade confessed that she was reading “Rocambole,” because she had heard it praised very highly. But it was so confused that she could not understand it, and she forgot to-day what she had read yesterday. She was going to leave off reading it, she declared, for she noticed that it increased her indigestion.
“Are you in bad health?” asked Bazilio, with the interest of a well-bred man.
Donna Felicidade availed herself of the opportunity to describe the different phases of her dyspepsia. Bazilio recommended her to use ice, congratulating her because just now, as he said, disorders of the stomach were very chic, and asking her for details with interest.
Donna Felicidade was profuse in giving them, endeavoring to show by her words, by the animation of her glance, and by her friendly accent, the lively sympathy she felt for Bazilio.
“So then you recommend me to try ice,—with a little wine, of course.”
“Yes, with wine.”
“That ought to be very good,” said Donna Felicidade to Luiza, touching her on the arm with her fan, her countenance animated and hopeful.
Luiza smiled, and was about to answer, when she observed standing beside her a man with a pallid countenance, whose languid glance was fixed upon her with an annoying persistence. She turned her back to him, and he withdrew, twisting the ends of his imperial.