Hardly knowing what he was about, he took off his hat, with that respect we learn even as children, when confronted by our parents' friends. Now he stood there, holding the hat with both hands across his breast. Don Manuel, you know, was a deputy in the National Assembly. The great man made Enrique put his hat on, again.
"What are you doing in Madrid?" asked he.
"Studying."
"Law?"
"No, sir. Medicine."
"That's a first-rate profession. What year are you in?"
"Freshman," answered Darlés, and smiled in a shamefaced sort of way. He knew his answers were short and clumsy, and the feeling of shabbiness oppressed him more than ever. Don Manuel glanced about him, with a kind of arrogant ease. Two or three times he murmured: "I'm waiting for somebody." Then he began to talk to the student again, asking him about his father and the political boss of the home town. Darlés kept on answering every question just the same way:
"No change, down there. Everything's all right."
And again the conversation was broken off by Don Manuel's expectant glancing about for the friend he was to meet.
The deputy asked, after a minute or two: