All at once there came the voice of the call-boy: 

“Senorita Clotilde, if you please—­”

“Coming,” she answered, rising.

She crossed over to the mirror, gave a few final touches to her brows and lashes with a pencil, adjusted with somewhat nervous fingers the coils of her hair, the cross of brilliants which she wore at her throat, and the folds of her dress.  Her friends became for the moment silent and abstractedly watched these last preparations.

“Good-by for the present, gentlemen.”  And she left the dressing-room, followed by her maid, carefully bearing her train, a magnificent train of cream-colored satin.

“She grows lovelier every day, Clotilde does,” said the medical student, allowing an imperceptible sigh to escape him.

Don Jeronimo took an enormous pull at his cigar, and instantly became enveloped in a cloud of smoke.  For this reason no one observed the smile of triumph with which he received the medical student’s remark.

“I agree with you that she grows prettier every day,” said another of the visitors.  “But it seems to me that her disposition has been undergoing a big change for some time back.  You, my boy, have not known her as long as we have.  She used to be a fascinating talker, so merry, so full of spirits!  No one could ever remain out of temper in her company.  But now I find her grave and sad almost all the time.”

“It’s a fact that I have wondered at the melancholy look in her eyes.”

Don Jeronimo took another enormous pull at his cigar.  No one saw the swift flare of anger that passed over his face.

“Changes like that, my boy, have only one cause, and that is love.”

“Was she engaged?”

“Precisely,—­Don Jeronimo knows the story well.”

“Yes, and I am going to tell it to you,” said the one referred to, from the depths of his cloak.  “Though you may believe me that it is no pleasant task to relate such follies.  But it concerns a girl whom we all of us love, and whatever affects her ought to interest us.

“Some three years ago a young man, faultlessly dressed and with the manuscript of a play under his arm, called upon the director of this theater.  Now there is nothing in the world more impressive and awe-inspiring than a well-dressed young man who carries the manuscript of a play under his arm.  The director did his best to dodge him, and held him off with a number of adroit moves; but he was finally cornered, all the same.  In other words, the young man invited him to breakfast one day, enticing him with the seductive prospect of several dozen oysters, washed down with abundant Sauterne, and for dessert he shot off his play at close range.

“As it turned out, the play was no good.  Pepe did what you know one does in such cases:  he expressed deep admiration for the versification, he said ‘bravo!’ over certain obscurely phrased thoughts, and finally he recommended a few changes in the second act, after which the work would be unexceptionable.