“See here, who is that gentleman there?”
“The clean-shaven one dressed in black?”
“Yes.”
“Señor Gálvez.”
“Periquito Gálvez?”
“Sí, Señor.”
Quentin entered the café and pretended not to see the fellow. He noticed that María Lucena was more pleasant to him than ever before.
“There’s something up,” he said to himself. “They are getting something ready for me.”
Quentin was not jealous, he was already very tired of María Lucena, and if any one had made off with her, he would have thanked him rather than otherwise.
“Between the two of them,” thought Quentin, referring to Gálvez and María, “they are plotting something against me.”