The cuckoo-clock in the dining-room had just struck eleven. Jorge, reclining in an antique easy-chair covered with dark leather, closed the volume of Louis Figuier that he had been listlessly turning over, stretched himself, yawned, and said,—
“Are you not going to dress, Luiza?”
“Directly.”
The person who thus answered was still seated at the breakfast-table reading the “Diario de Noticias.” She was clad in a dark-colored morning-gown adorned with large pearl buttons. Her blond hair was in some disorder; her head was small, her profile charming. Her elbow rested on the table, while her fingers with a slow and graceful movement mechanically caressed the tip of her rosy ear. Her nails were long and polished, and in addition to her wedding ring she wore another, set with small rubies, that shot forth crimson rays when they caught the light.
The floor of the dining-room was covered with matting; the ceiling was in imitation of wood, and the walls were adorned with a light-colored paper with a green vine running through it. It was July. The heat
was intense. The windows were closed, but the fervor of the sun’s rays striking against the panes and falling on the stone floor of the balcony without penetrated into the apartment with a sultry glow.
