Señora Barenna fetched one of her deepest sighs. She had a few lurking in the depth of her capacious being, reserved for such occasions as this. It was, it seemed, no more than her life had led her to expect. ‘You have had,’ went on her spiritual adviser, ‘a life of ease and luxury, a husband who denied you nothing. You have never lost a child by death, which I understand is—one of the greatest sorrows that God sends to women. You are an ungrateful female.’ Señora Barenna, whose face would have graced one of the very earliest of the martyrs, sat with folded hands waiting until the storm should pass. ‘Do you wish me to see Julia?’ asked Concha abruptly. ‘Yes—yes! And persuade her to conciliate the Alcalde—to tell him some story or another. It does not surely matter if it be not the strict truth. Anything to get these men out of the house. My maid Maria is so flighty. Ah—these young people! What a trial—my dear Padre, what a trial!’ ‘Of course,’ said Father Concha. ‘But what a dull world it would be if our neighbour knew how to manage his own affairs! Shall we go to Julia?’ The perturbed lady preferred that the priest should see her daughter alone. A military-looking individual in white trousers and a dark green tunic stood guard over the door of Julia’s apartment, seeking by his attitude and the curl of his moustache to magnify his office in the eyes of a maid who happened to have an unusual amount of cleaning to do in that particular corridor. ‘Ah!’ said Father Concha, by no means abashed by the sentinel’s sword. ‘Ah, it is you, Manuel. Your wife tells me you have objections to the christening of that last boy of yours, number five, I think. Bring number five on Sunday, after vespers—eh? You understand—and a little something for the poor. It is pay day on Saturday. And no more nonsense about religion, Manuel, eh?’ He shook his lean finger in the official’s face and walked on unchallenged. ‘May I come in?’ he said, tapping at the door; and Julia’s voice bade him enter. He closed the door behind him and laid aside his hat. Then he stood upright, and slowly rubbing his hands together looked at Julia with the humorous twinkle lurking in his eye and its companion dimple twitching in his lean cheek. Then he began to feel his pockets, passing his hands down his worn cassock. ‘Let me see, I had a love letter—was it from Don Carlos? At all events, I have lost it!’ He laughed, made a perfunctory sign of the cross and gave her his blessing. Then, his face having become suddenly grave as if by machinery at the sound of the solemn Latin benediction, he sat down. Julia looked worn and eager. Her eyes seemed to search his face for news. ‘Yes, my dear child,’ he said. ‘Politics are all very well as a career. But without a distinct profit they are worth the attention of few men, and never worth the thought of a woman.’