“What about a necktie?” asked one of the company, who had been nodding.

Don Jeronimo took an immense, an infernal pull at his cigar, in testimony of his annoyance, then proceeded with no further notice: 

“Meanwhile the rehearsals of Inocencio’s play had begun.  It was called, if I am not mistaken, Stooping to Conquer,—­excuse me, no, I believe it was just the reverse, Conquering to Stoop.  Well, at all events, it contained a participle and an infinitive.  Before long I became aware that lover-like relations had been established between our fair friend and the author, and since, as a matter of fact, even if Inocencio was a bad poet, as Pepe insisted, he seemed like a good lad, I was very glad it had happened and I helped it along as much as I could.  Clotilde confided in me, and declared that she was desperately in love; that her ambitions no longer had anything to do with the art of the stage, which seemed to her an unbearable slavery; that her ideal was to live tranquilly, even if it were in a garret, united to the man whom she adored; that woman was born to be the guardian angel of the fireside, and not to divert the public, and that she herself would rather be queen of a humble little apartment illuminated with love, than to receive all the applause in the world.  In short, gentlemen, our young friend was living in the midst of an idyllic dream.

“Inocencio was, to all appearance, no less in love than she.  I frequently encountered them walking through the unfrequented by-paths of the Retiro, at a respectable distance from her mother, who lingered opportunely to examine the first opening buds of flowers or some curious insect.  Mothers, at this critical period of courtship, are under an obligation to be admirers of the works of nature.  The young pair of turtle-doves would pause when they caught sight of me and greet me blushingly.  I cannot conceal from you that, however much I felt the loss to art, I was delighted that Clotilde was going to be married.  A woman always needs the protection of a man.  And there is no question that so far as outward appearance went, they were worthy of one another.  Inocencio certainly was a most attractive young fellow.

“At the theater they talked of nothing else than of this wedding, which was still in the bud.  Everybody was delighted, because Clotilde is the only actress, since the beginning of the world, who took it into her head to attempt what until now was regarded as impossible, to make herself beloved by her companions.

“I observed, nevertheless,—­for you know that I am an observant person:  it is the only quality that I possess, that of observation, a thing to which the authors of today attach no importance.  Today, in the drama, everything is so much dried leaves, a lot of moonshine, which, they let filter down through the foliage of the trees, a lot of description of dawn and twilight, and a lot of other similar pastry-shop stuff.  That’s all there is to it!  When any fledgling author comes to me with nonsense of that sort, I say to him:  ’Get down to the facts!  Get down to the facts!’ The facts are the drama, which doesn’t exist in the great part of the above-mentioned.”