“Oiga, little sister, listen. Say nothing of having seen me at home after siesta, wilt thou not? I should be at the _bodega_ right now, receiving any new goods. Eh?” She nodded, and he kissed her good-by, hurrying off through the rear of the house. It was quite dark and late, nearly nine o’clock, before Don Anabel returned from the warehouse with Luis and found Doña Gertrudis fuming and fluttering. The roast was entirely burned up, they would be late to the _baile_, which was always at ten, and her powder was already pure paste. She fluttered before them into the dining room, where a special effort had been made for the occasion when, she hoped, Consuelo would at last announce to the family what they so much wished to hear. The good Doña Gertrudis adored her daughter, and she was a trifle afraid of her, too, of her youth, her beauty, her wit, though Consuelo’s tongue was always dutiful to her parents. Nor would Don Anabel have tolerated any lack of that obedience and respect which every true Spaniard demands of his children. He would not have forced a marriage that was against his daughter’s heart, yet he was pleased with the idea of this union. But Consuelo made no occasion to tell him that the matter was settled. In the garden, just as crepusculo fell, Don Tiburcio, returning, had found Consuelo and in a moment had his answer clearly, “No.” Extra candles graced the table, and a silver goblet stiffly crammed with yellow roses. The best leather-backed chairs were placed before six deep silver plates, inside which were laid, on one side the fork, on the other the spoon. Knives were used only in the kitchen or by the hunter on the trail--such vulgarity as carving one’s food at the table was unknown. Don Anabel took his place at the head of the board; Don Tiburcio followed him; Luis slipped in hastily; the ancient _abuela_, the grandmother who had come up from the country to visit her daughter, was assisted by two servants to a place of honor; and all were seated. At once all was chattering and conversation so swift that none but the accustomed ear could have understood. Don Anabel’s was not one of those establishments where the women of the family rarely if ever ate with the men. He was a cosmopolite, he averred, as he poured the red grape from the finely chased pitcher and filled the glasses for the second, or was it the third, time? Consuelo drained her goblet, but ate little. The harmless vintage deepened the color in her cheeks, brought an extra sparkle to her eyes. At the moment when she was raising the copa in _saludes_ to her grandmother, Roman, the doddering old _moso_, appeared in the doorway with a tall figure at his back. “Here he is,” mumbled Roman, and retreated just in time to escape Don Anabel’s wrath at the intrusion.