"As if it were not enough to lose that treasure," the widow continued, stormily, "the Government must free all our slaves. Tse! Tse! And now that there is no longer a profit in sugar, my plantations—"
"No profit in sugar? What are you saying?" queried the caller.
"Oh, you have a way of prospering! What touches your fingers turns to gold. But you are not at the mercy of an administrador."
"Precisely! I am my own manager. If your crops do not pay, then Pancho Cueto is cheating you. He is capable of it. Get rid of him. But I didn't come here to talk about Esteban's hidden treasure, nor his plantations, nor Pancho Cueto. I came here to talk about your step-daughter, Rosa."
"So?" Dona Isabel looked up quickly.
"She interests me. She is more beautiful than the stars." Don Mario rolled his eyes toward the high ceiling, which, like the sky, was tinted a vivid cerulean blue. "She personifies every virtue; she is—delectable." He pursed his wet lips, daintily picked a kiss from between them with his thumb and finger, and snapped it into the air.
Inasmuch as Isabel had always hated the girl venomously, she did not trust herself to comment upon her caller's enthusiasm.
"She is now eighteen," the fat suitor went on, ecstatically, "and so altogether charming—But why waste time in pretty speeches? I have decided to marry her."
De Castano plucked a heavily scented silk handkerchief from his pocket and wiped a beading of moisture from his brow and upper lip. He had a habit of perspiring when roused from his usual lethargy.
"Rosa has a will of her own," guardedly ventured the stepmother.