The establishment of Percy Reed, diamond-dealer, Rua do Ouvidor, was a corner-building, almost the exact counterpart of a dozen edifices on the same square.  The basement was of polished blocks of black and white marble, and the upper portion faced with blue and white porcelain tiles.  From above, the front rooms looked out through bow-windows at small balconies with brass-knobbed railings and thick glass floors; those in rear looked through glass doors at a flat roof, one story high, paved with black and white marble squares.  This breathing-place of the household was adorned with pots of flowers and evergreens and provided with neat iron chairs.  It was divided from the breathing-place of the adjoining household by a low brick wall.

Below, pedestrians gazed in through rose-wood doors and French plate windows.  The counting-room had rather the appearance of an elegant boudoir than of a place of business.  The floor was of alternate strips of satin-wood and ebony; the walls and ceiling were paneled with rose-wood, and rows of small glistening show-cases contained samples of the dazzling gems.  In the rear—­but so covered with the glossy finish as to be almost imperceptible—­was a huge vault, containing precious stones of a value almost sufficient to change the fate of an empire.  Farther back, and opening on the side street, was a long, dark hall-way, from which a winding staircase led to the residence above.  The second floor of the adjoining house was usually let furnished to members of the dramatic profession; and on this occasion it was occupied by Mademoiselle Adrienne Milan, of the Alcasar.

The day after the festa, the lady, in a simple morning toilet, had moved her table and sewing-chair into the open air.  Instead of sewing, she was occupied in furbishing up some old stage jewelry, and her visitor, stretched on an iron bench, calmly puffed a cigar.  From his manner, one would imagine him master rather than guest; but that Mademoiselle Milan and a female servant were the sole occupants there is not a doubt.

With the utmost nonchalance, he had ordered a pillow, and, his ambrosial locks buried in its soft depths and his feet raised high above his head, he lounged a modern Apollo, scrutinizing with supercilious indifference the lady’s work.  If the cigar-ashes at his side were a criterion, he had been lying there for hours; and if the nervous movements of Mademoiselle were significant, he had been lying there an hour too long.  For some minutes the silence was broken only by the jingle of the gaudy ornaments, and then the man exclaimed, “But, ma chere Adrienne, I am short—­deuced short.  Delay is ruin.  How am I to live?”

“Work,” said the lady, curtly.

“There you are again, with your cursed woman’s wisdom!  What are you here for?  What am I here for?”

Mademoiselle answered, with a shrug, “Judging from your position, I would say, to enjoy your ease; from your language, to annoy me.”