nced of two very
important things: namely, that Inocencio possessed a talent so great
that his head could scarcely hold it, and secondly, that there was no
one else in all Madrid who could wear so conspicuous a necktie with
such charming effect. I need not tell you that their confidential
interviews increased in frequency, and that consequently Clotilde came
day by day more completely under the fascinating influence of that
supernatural necktie. In the end, she yielded herself vanquished, and
surrendered herself to it, bound hand and foot. The necktie deigned to
raise her from the ground and grant her the favor of its affection."

"What about a necktie?" asked one of the company, who had been
nodding.

Don Jeronimo took an immense, an infernal pull at his cigar, in
testimony of his annoyance, then proceeded with no further notice:

"Meanwhile the rehearsals of Inocencio's play had begun. It was
called, if I am not mistaken, _Stooping to Conquer_,--excuse me, no, I
believe it was just the reverse, _Conquering to Stoop_. Well, at all
events, it contained a participle and an infinitive. Before long I
became aware that lover-like relations had been established between
our fair friend and the author, and since, as a matter of fact, even
if Inocencio was a bad poet, as Pepe insisted, he seemed like a good
lad, I was very glad it had happened and I helped it along as much as
I could. Clotilde confided in me, and declared that she was
desperately in love; that her ambitions no longer had anything to do
with the art of the stage, which seemed to her an unbearable slavery;
that her ideal was to live tranquilly, even if it were in a garret,
united to the man whom she adored; that woman was born to be the
guardian angel of the fireside, and not to divert the public, and
that she herself would rather be queen of a humble little apartment
illuminated with love, than to receive all the applause in the world.
In short, gentlemen, our young friend was living in the midst of an
idyllic dream.

"Inocencio was, to all appearance, no less in love than she. I
frequently encountered them walking through the unfrequented by-paths
of the Retiro, at a respectable distance from her mother, who lingered
opportunely to examine the first opening buds of flowers or some
curious insect. Mothers, at this critical period of courtship, are
under an obligation to be admirers of the works of nature. The young
pair of turtle-doves would pause when they