Don Basilio made a lean bow, taking off his shovel hat with his long fingers. “Good day to you; good day to all.”
As for the young people at the piano, they could only wonder what could come next.
“And pray, Basilio, how are you?” asked the doctor, earnestly.
“How am I; as well as ever.”
“Excuse me Senor, but that confounded beard of yours; a town barber cannot wait all day!”
“Yes, yes; directly. And the lawyer, Don Basilio?”
“The lawyer?”
The professor of music deserted his post and fled up to the doctor. “Of the affair, Senor, of the letter, recollect he nothing knows.”
The barber turned to Don Basilio, who was elevating his eyebrows, and all the wrinkles in his forehead, wondering what all this might mean. “Oh heavens, Don Basilio, this is fever.”
Said Figaro,