“In that case,” replied Raphael, on going away, “I will make a beautiful masculine Harpy that would have the advantage of being able to propagate his species.”
CHAPTER XXII.
IT was at the close of summer, in the month of September. The weather was still warm, but the evenings were already long and cool. Nine o’clock had struck, and there remained at the countess’s only the family and intimate friends, when Eloise entered.
“Sit down here near me on the sofa,” said the mistress of the house to her.
“I am very much obliged to you. Notwithstanding, you will agree with me, Gracia, that our sofas in Spain are stuffed only with tow and horsehair. Nothing is harder or less comfortable.”
“But also nothing is more fresh,” said Rita, near whom Eloise had seated herself, in a studied attitude.
“Do you know what they say?” asked this last of the poet Polo, playing with his yellow gloves, and stretching out his leg, to exhibit his beautiful patent-leather shoes; “they say that Arias is named town-major, but I believe it is a splendid puff.”
“Village gossip, for Seville resembles, a village,” replied Eloise, smirking. “Raphael merits better than that. He is a man who is very spiritual, very fashionable, and a brave officer.”
“What do you say, señorita?” demanded the general, who had vaguely understood something of the conversation.
“I say, sir, what everybody repeats who knows it.”