Then, as if it annoyed her to remain standing before her husband’s desk, her eyes sought a chair. She found one a little bit away and sat down, still holding her parasol and purse, in the attitude of a lady paying a visit.
Both were silent; though, as ever since her return, he fixed his eyes on his wife’s face and person with a curiosity half thoughtful and half observant, with an attitude of acute investigation which sometimes embarrassed Maria.
“Still, Emilio,” she said in a low voice, to break the silence, “you are so fond of fox-hunting.”
“I like it very much, it is true,” he replied.
“And it will be a year before you can begin again.”
“That is true.”
“Didn’t you decide yesterday evening to go?”
“Certainly I did decide to go; but a night has passed on it.”
“You don’t sleep at night and think of the meet at Cecilia Metella?” she asked, trying to joke.
“Eh, one doesn’t always sleep,” he replied, with an irritable gesture of annoyance.