There she remained.
From time to time she gently put a question to Conu Costache; it had the same effect upon his agitation as does oil upon a fire of coals.
“How beautiful it must be at your country-house now, Mr. Costache!”
“Beautiful, Mrs. Raluca,” he replied, forcing himself to smile—and chalking himself another eighteen in the pool.
“I expect you often go there, as it is so close.”
“I went to-day, Mrs. Raluca.”
No words can describe the contrast between the placidity with which Mrs. Raluca told her beads, and the fury with which Conu Costache shuffled his cards.
“Is it a good harvest, Mr. Costache?”
“G—g—good, Mrs. Raluca,” he replied, thrusting both hands inside the neck of his shirt to loosen the collar.
The game began, the attorney played below the ace, Conu Costache named the suit for the second time.