it amused
him to see with what unrestraint and ease the girl slid over all
obstacles, and what skill she displayed in making retorts, and giving
her phrases the meaning that she desired.

And it must be said that when they came on dangerous ground they several
times narrowly escaped a conversation of exceedingly questionable taste.
When such a skirmish of wit began, Maximina used to walk up and down the
balcony with Rosaura; although she smiled, it was evident that she did
not approve. When she and her husband were alone afterwards, she said
nothing about it, but the way in which she spoke of Filomena showed that
she felt no great esteem for her.

"Well, in spite of her boldness and her masculine ways," Miguel used to
say, "she is a nice girl ... much better than her sister, according to
my way of thinking."

Maximina said nothing, so as not to contradict him, but she had her own
very decided opinion. A vague feeling of jealousy, for which she could
not fully account, contributed toward making her feel an antipathy to
her.

Thus matters stood, when, one morning Miguel, lying back in an
easy-chair in his study, was tranquilly listening to Maximina, who,
seated on a stool at his feet, and leaning her shoulder against his
knees, was reading aloud from _Adventures of the Squire Marcos of
Obregon_, written by Vicente Espinel. While the young wife was reading,
he was playing with the braids of her hair, which she wore loose in the
house for his special pleasure.

The reading could not have been much to Maximina's taste, judging by the
careless and inattentive way in which she modulated her voice.

The novels which she liked were not those where everything that takes
place is commonplace and prosaic, but another sort, the plot and
extraordinary action of which piqued her curiosity.

Thus almost all the books brought by her husband for her to read made
her tired and sleepy, and it surprised her that he praised these, and
called those that she liked pestiferous.

She had just finished reading one chapter, terribly heavy for her, when
suddenly, turning her head around and giving him a look which was half
innocent and half mischievous, she asked:--

"Do you like this?"

"Very much indeed."

"I thought so; when a book does not please me nowadays, I always say to
myself: 'How fine it must be!'"

She said these words with such ingenuousness and such a graceful
resignation that her husband, laughing heartily, took her