counterpane was a magnificent combination of white and crimson between the gleaming surfaces of dark wood; and the whole room had an air of splendour with marble consoles, gilt carvings, long mirrors and a sumptuous Venetian lustre depending from the ceiling:  a darkling mass of icy pendants catching a spark here and there from the candles of an eight-branched candelabra standing on a little table near the head of a sofa which had been dragged round to face the fireplace.  The faintest possible whiff of a familiar perfume made my head swim with its suggestion.

I grabbed the back of the nearest piece of furniture and the splendour of marbles and mirrors, of cut crystals and carvings, swung before my eyes in the golden mist of walls and draperies round an extremely conspicuous pair of black stockings thrown over a music stool which remained motionless.  The silence was profound.  It was like being in an enchanted place.  Suddenly a voice began to speak, clear, detached, infinitely touching in its calm weariness.

“Haven’t you tormented me enough to-day?” it said. . . .  My head was steady now but my heart began to beat violently.  I listened to the end without moving, “Can’t you make up your mind to leave me alone for to-night?” It pleaded with an accent of charitable scorn.

The penetrating quality of these tones which I had not heard for so many, many days made my eyes run full of tears.  I guessed easily that the appeal was addressed to the atrocious Therese.  The speaker was concealed from me by the high back of the sofa, but her apprehension was perfectly justified.  For was it not I who had turned back Therese the pious, the insatiable, coming downstairs in her nightgown to torment her sister some more?  Mere surprise at Dona Rita’s presence in the house was enough to paralyze me; but I was also overcome by an enormous sense of relief, by the assurance of security for her and for myself.  I didn’t even ask myself how she came there.  It was enough for me that she was not in Tolosa.  I could have smiled at the thought that all I had to do now was to hasten the departure of that abominable lunatic—­for Tolosa:  an easy task, almost no task at all.  Yes, I would have smiled, had not I felt outraged by the presence of Senor Ortega under the same roof with Dona Rita.  The mere fact was repugnant to me, morally revolting; so that I should have liked to rush at him and throw him out into the street.  But that was not to be done for various reasons.  One of them was pity.  I was suddenly at peace with all mankind, with all nature.  I felt as if I couldn’t hurt a fly.  The intensity of my emotion sealed my lips.  With a fearful joy tugging at my heart I moved round the head of the couch without a word.