“No,” Robledo replied. “I am getting old, and it bores me to get into evening clothes and white gloves just to listen to music. No, I’d rather stay at the hotel. I’ll see to it that they put Carlos to bed in good order ... and anyway I promised him a story.”
While he talked he felt all the uneasiness of uncertainty ... should he tell Celinda and her husband about the afternoon’s chance meeting?... Would it be more prudent to tell it only to Watson?
On the rare occasions when their conversation had included allusions to Torre Bianca’s wife, Celinda usually so light-hearted and even-tempered, had frowned as though she could not bear even the name of the marquesa.
Perhaps now the knowledge of the detested woman’s abject state would cause her a cruel satisfaction.... But Robledo repented of this thought. Celinda surely had no room for feelings of revenge in her happiness! And if so, news of the marquesa could only cause her the discomfort of an unpleasant memory.
Why revive the past?... Let life go on!...
And Robledo gave all his attention to making up the marvellous story that he was going to tell to his young friend and chief heir.
FINIS.