“I must inform you that my friend Cæsar is married, too,” said Alzugaray, laughing.
“Pshaw!” she exclaimed, smiling and showing her white, strong teeth. “He hasn’t the face of a married man.”
“Yes, he has got the face of a married man. Look at him hard.”
“Very well; as his wife isn’t here, she won’t quarrel with me.”
Alzugaray examined this girl. She had great vivacity; any idea that occurred to her was reflected in her face in a manner so lively and charming, that she was an interesting spectacle to watch.
At first the conversation was of a languid and weary character; Don Calixto, the judge, and Cæsar started in to exchange political reflexions of crass vulgarity. Cæsar was gallantly attentive to the wants of Don Calixto’s elder daughter, and less gallantly so to his other neighbour Amparito; the mayor’s son, despite the fact that his official mission was to court one of Don Calixto’s girls, looked more at Amparito than at his intended, and Alzugaray listened smilingly to the young person’s sallies.
Toward the middle of the meal the conversation grew brisker; the judge recounted, with much art, a mysterious crime that had occurred in a town in Andalusia among farming people, and he succeeded in keeping them all hanging to his lips.
At the end of the recital, the conversation became general; the younger element talked together, and Cæsar made comments about what the judge had told them, and defended the most immoral and absurd conclusions, as though they were Conservative ideas.
Cæsar’s observations were discussed by the men, and the judge and Don Calixto agreed that Cæsar was a man of real talent, who would play a great role in Congress.
“Please give me a little wine,” said Amparito, holding her glass to Alzugaray; “your friend pays no attention to me; I have asked him for some wine twice, and nothing doing.”