“Ah! You aim at a literary career, to some public office!” replied Doña Socorro, sneeringly.
“Do not make sport of me, lady; I know right well, that I shall never fill the position of a general or a magistrate. You asked me to be frank, and I frankly admit that I have my aspirations.”
“Very good—what difficulty is that. Better and better. Go and fill this position, save money, put yourself in contact with people of consequence, and from La Ermita, you may go to be Regidor, or something higher. You know well that Alcaldes, and even Jefes Politicos, come from the country-places. What hinders?”
“Really, lady, speaking plainly, the position does not attract me in the least.”
“H’m!—You are not telling me the truth; at least, you are concealing something from me—something—what is the real cause of your refusal?”
Antón maintained silence: the lady urged him.
“Why are you not frank with me—who care so much for you?”
“It is”—he stammered—“the truth is that just now, less than ever, do I care to leave the town.”
“Come, come, tell it all”—insisted the lady, piqued with lively curiosity—“who is your sweetheart?”