“Come in, Senhor Julião,” she said; “the mistress is with her cousin, but she has given orders to admit any one who may call.”
Delighted at being able to interrupt the conversation, she opened the door of the parlor.
“Senhor Julião,” she announced in a shrill voice.
Luiza presented the two gentlemen to each other. Bazilio hardly rose from the sofa, and with a glance expressive of something akin to terror examined Julião, from his disordered hair to his badly-polished boots.
“What a savage!” he said to himself.
Luiza, divining his thoughts, colored with shame. What idea would Bazilio form of the acquaintances, the friends of the house, by this badly-dressed man whose collar was soiled and whose coat was old and ill-fitting? She felt her chic diminished by this visit, and instinctively, influenced by a sentiment of futile vanity, her countenance assumed a reserved, almost a serious air, as if Julião’s visit were a surprise to her, and his attire an offence.
Julião vaguely comprehended that his presence was an annoyance, and with something of embarrassment said, settling his spectacles on his nose,—
“I was passing this way by chance, and I stopped in to ask if you have had any news of Jorge.”
“Thanks, yes; he has written to me. He is well.”
Bazilio, leaning back among the cushions of the sofa with all the familiarity of a near relative, was attentively observing his silk stockings embroidered with red, and languidly caressing his mustache, displaying, as he did so, two rings,—a ruby and a sapphire,—that glittered on his little finger. The affectation of this attitude, and the gleams of color shot forth by the jewels, confused Julião. Then, desirous of showing his intimacy in the family, he said,—