He noticed her hands. They were not the thin, pale, very knuckly bundles of skewers which ladies’ hands usually seemed to him, but perfections of form and marks of capacities. There was a ring on one finger. “There it is,” he thought; “she’s engaged to be married, to this devil Manuel, who isn’t good enough for her. This devil Manuel can kiss her. I’d like to call him out.” Glancing suddenly away from the lovely face he saw Rosa watching him with a certain malice tinged just a little, unselfish as she was, with envy. No one had stared at her in quite that way before she had taken any pains to secure it.
Rosa smiled somewhat bitterly; a gong was beaten to call them to lunch.
“Manuel is late,” Carlotta said; “he said he might be.”
Hi hated Manuel for being late, and for being called “Manuel,” and for being at all. He wanted to shine before her, but could think of nothing to say; he seemed to be spurting orange-juice everywhere. Then he was ashamed that three women, living in this lovely room, should all speak good English, in compliment to himself, while he could hardly say, “Thank you” in Spanish.
IV
“Rosa, my daughter,” Donna Emilia said, “I have had such a strange message from Señora Artigas. Her son, Estifanio, has disappeared.”
“We passed him in the cathedral last night, mother, at about six or half-past, as we left the service.”
“He was at home after that. At nearly midnight two young men, in evening dress, called for him to say that Porfirio Rivera, his great friend, had been hurt in a duel, was dying, and had asked for him. Estifanio did not know the young men; but, of course, he went with them, and he has not returned.”
“If his friend were dying, mother, he would stay with him.”
“But the story was false, my dear. Porfirio called for Estifanio this morning; he had fought no duel, is in perfect health, and has sent no message. Estifanio has disappeared. Imagine his mother’s anxiety.”