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Here was the pride of poverty, if not poverty itself, and it was with a pang that we parted from these mutely appealing ladies. We could not have borne it if we had not instantly promised ourselves to come the next day and meet them and go home with them and buy all their encajes that we had money for.
As we came out of an antiquity shop near the cathedral one afternoon we found on the elevated footway near the Gate of Pardon a mother and daughter, both of the same second youth, who gently and jointly pronounced to us the magical word encajes.
But that one of us twain who was singly concerned in encajes had fatigued and perhaps overbought herself at the antiquity shop, and she signified a regret which they divined too well was dissent. They looked rather than expressed a keen little disappointment; the mother began a faint insistence, but the daughter would not suffer it.
MARQUESA. ¿Vive en este cuarto una mujer que lava encajes?... Pero ¿qué ven mis ojos? ¡Matilde! DOÑA MATILDE. ¡Clementina! MARQUESA. ¡Tú aquí! DOÑA MATILDE. ¡Oh! ¡qué gusto tengo en verte! MARQUESA. ¡Y yo!... Pero ¿qué haces en este desván? DOÑA MATILDE. Ya te diré ... es que ... ¿y tú, estás todavía en las Salesas?
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