Rita, to be near her, had abandoned her ordinary place, and was seated beside Eloise.
“My God!” she said, on seeing the Gaviota, “she is blacker than a mole.”
“One could swear,” added Eloise, “that it was her greatest enemy who has dressed her. One would say a Judas of Holy Saturday. How does it seem to you, Raphael?”
“This wrinkle which she has between her eyebrows,” replied Arias, “gives her the appearance of a unicorn.”
During this time, in this assembly so numerous and so brilliant, no symptom of politeness or good feeling was shown towards Maria; who not the less preserved all her aplomb and her unalterable calmness. Thanks to her look, always investigating and penetrating, to her quick intelligence, and the exquisite tact of a Spanish woman, two minutes sufficed her to remark every thing, and to judge of it all.
“I already understand,” she said to herself, in resuming her observations, “that the countess is good, and desires my success; the young elegants make fun of me and of my toilet, which must be frightful; for these strangers look at me disdainfully, as I am only a simple country girl: for the old I am a nullity; the others remain neuter. In consideration of the duke, who is my protector, they will neither praise nor criticise until after an opinion favorable or the contrary is formed of me.”
For her part, the good and amiable countess tried to enter into conversation with the Gaviota, but her laconic responses neutralized all her good intentions.
“Does Seville please you much?” asked the countess.
“Sufficiently,” replied Maria.
“And what do you think of our cathedral?”