“If you don’t want me to stay here,” said Quentin—“tell me so.”
“Do you hate me so much for last night?” she said.
“I? No, Señora; but since this chamber is so narrow that one can scarcely move in it, you must let me know if I’m in your way.”
“No; you’re not in my way.”
Quentin seated himself upon a chair, took out his note book and pencil, and made up his mind to attempt one of the most disagreeable and difficult things in the world for him—making verses. Not by any chance did a consonance occur to him, nor did a single verse come out with the right number of feet, unless he counted them upon his fingers.
The good woman, with her crimped hair covered with little bow-knots, and her white wrapper, was contemplating the roof of the garret with desperate weariness.
Thus they remained for a long time. Suddenly the woman exclaimed in a choked voice:
“Señor!”
“What is it, Señora?”
“I seem very ridiculous in your eyes, do I not?”