"My fruitful invention, Señor, as you are kindly pleased to term that faculty, which at other times you most unceremoniously treat with contempt;—my fruitful invention, Don Lope, has conjured up——"
"What, my good Roque?" eagerly inquired his master.
"Nothing," drawled out the valet.
"Provoking idiot," exclaimed Gomez Arias; "I know not what induces me to retain such a dull brute about me."
A pause followed, and Don Lope, quite at a loss on what course to determine, seated himself on one of the stone benches concealed by the trees that overshadowed the place. There he began to muse, whilst Roque, unwilling to disturb his reflections, betook himself to examine the unfortunate gorguera, and heave many a ludicrous sigh over its melancholy fate.
"Roque," cried Gomez Arias, after a short lapse, "I see no remedy but placing Theodora in a convent."
"Aye!" answered Roque, "it will all be right, provided she consents."
"Consents! By my troth, thinkest thou I shall put myself to the inconvenience of consulting her inclination?—No, Roque; unless some better plan be instantly devised, I must even resolve upon the convent; for the time passes rapidly away, and this girl must be disposed of to-night."
"Could you not contrive to send her to her father?" demanded Roque: "Poor thing, she is so very unhappy that——"
"Send her to her father!" returned Gomez Arias. "Art thou mad, Roque?—or is it thy wish that my fortune should be ruined for ever?"