When they had been settled for about a month in the Calle del Ave María, Don Sergio appeared one morning boiling with indignation. The baroness refused to receive him, and sent the servant maid to say that she was out. The old man went away and that afternoon wrote the baroness a letter.
Mingote had not “peached.” Don Sergio fumed; it did not appear seemly to him that Horacio should spend his days and nights in the baroness’s home; he did not mind an occasional visit from her cousin, but his assiduity,—that was the rub. The baroness showed the letter to her cousin; he, who doubtless was just hunting for some pretext under which he might escape, bethought himself of Lord Bacon, suddenly felt the Anglo-Saxon in him rise,—the Aryan, man of morals,—and ceased his visits to the home of the baroness.
The baroness, who was suffering from the final flush of romanticism that comes with the Indian summer of youth, sank into despair, addressed epistles to the gallant, but he continued to feel Anglo-Saxon and Aryan, ever mindful of Lord Bacon.
In the meantime Don Sergio, finding that his letter had produced no results, returned to his mission and came again to the house.
“My dear Paquita, what can possibly be the trouble with you?” he asked, gazing upon her altered features.
“I believe I’ve caught the grippe, my head feels so heavy. I have aches all over my body. Here you see me, utterly abandoned. It is God’s will, I suppose.”
Don Sergio listened silently to the whirlwind of words and wails with which the baroness tried to clear herself of blame; then he said:
“This sort of life can’t go on. You must introduce some method, some semblance of order. Things simply can’t go on like this.”
“That’s just what I’ve been thinking,” answered the baroness. “I understand well enough that this sort of life isn’t for me. I’ll go back to another house at twelve duros.”
“And the furniture?”