The father remained at home, taking advantage of this opportunity to survey his fields in their Sunday solitude, thus keeping a closer oversight on the shiftlessness of his hands.  He was very religious—­“Religion and good manners, you know.”  But had he not given thousands of dollars toward building the neighboring church?  A man of his fortune should not be submitted to the same obligations as ragamuffins!

During the Sunday lunch the young ladies were apt to make comments upon the persons and merits of the young men of the village and neighboring ranches, who had lingered at the church door in order to chat with them.

“Don’t fool yourselves, girls!” observed the father shrewdly.  “You believe that they want you for your elegance, don’t you? . . .  What those shameless fellows really want are the dollars of old Madariaga, and once they had them, they would probably give you a daily beating.”

For a while the ranch received numerous visitors.  Some were young men of the neighborhood who arrived on spirited steeds, performing all kinds of tricks of fancy horsemanship.  They wanted to see Don Julio on the most absurd pretexts, and at the same time improved the opportunity to chat with Chicha and Luisa.  At other times they were youths from Buenos Aires asking for a lodging at the ranch, as they were just passing by.  Don Madariaga would growl—­

“Another good-for-nothing scamp who comes in search of the Spanish ranchman!  If he doesn’t move on soon . . .  I’ll kick him out!”

But the suitor did not stand long on the order of his going, intimidated by the ominous silence of the Patron.  This silence, of late, had persisted in an alarming manner, in spite of the fact that the ranch was no longer receiving visitors.  Madariaga appeared abstracted, and all the family, including Desnoyers, respected and feared this taciturnity.  He ate, scowling, with lowered head.  Suddenly he would raise his eyes, looking at Chicha, then at Desnoyers, finally fixing them upon his wife as though asking her to give an account of things.

His Romantica simply did not exist for him.  The only notice that he ever took of her was to give an ironical snort when he happened to see her leaning at sunset against the doorway, looking at the reddening glow—­one elbow on the door frame and her cheek in her hand, in imitation of the posture of a certain white lady that she had seen in a chromo, awaiting the knight of her dreams.

Desnoyers had been five years in the house when one day he entered his master’s private office with the brusque air of a timid person who has suddenly reached a decision.

“Don Julio, I am going to leave and I would like our accounts settled.”

Madariaga looked at him slyly.  “Going to leave, eh? . . .  What for?” But in vain he repeated his questions.  The Frenchman was floundering through a series of incoherent explanations—­“I’m going; I’ve got to go.”