A few moments before they sat down, Amparito went running out of the gallery into the garden. “Where has that child gone?” asked Don Calixto’s wife.
“Something or other has occurred to her,” said Amparito’s father, laughing.
The girl reappeared a little later with a number of yellow and red chrysanthemums in her hand.
She gave red ones to the mayor’s daughter and to her cousins, who were all three brunettes, and a yellow one to the judge’s daughter, who was blond. Then she proceeded to the men.
“This one is for you,” to the mayor’s son; “this one for you,” and she gave Alzugaray a yellow one; “this one for you,” and she gave Cæsar a red one; “and this one for me,” and she put a similar flower in her bosom.
“And the rest of us?” asked Don Calixto.
“I don’t give you chrysanthemums, because your wives would be jealous,” replied Amparito.
“Man, man!” exclaimed the judge; “how does it strike you, Don Calixto? That these little girls know the human heart pretty well?”
“These children do not know how to appreciate our merits,” said Don Calixto.
“Oh, yes; your merits are for your wives,” replied Amparito.