Camila continued walking about the room for several minutes, consumed by her thoughts. Presently without so much as glancing at her secretary, she commanded: "Take another leaf. _Have you gone mad? Do not ever think of eating another bull to me again. It has caused a frightful war. Heaven protect you, my colt. Friday night, the same place, the same time. I may be a little late, for the fox is wide-awake_. That will be all." Manuel rose. "You swear that you have made no errors?" "Yes, I swear." "There is your money." Manuel took the money. "I shall want you to write me more letters from time to time. My uncle Pio generally writes my letters; these I do not wish him to know about. Good night. Go with God." "Go with God." Manuel descended the stairs and stood for a long time among the trees, not thinking, not moving. Esteban knew that his brother was continually brooding over the Perichole, but he never suspected that he saw her. From time to time during the next two months a small boy would approach him in great haste and ask whether he were Manuel or Esteban, and being informed that he was only Esteban, the boy would add that Manuel was wanted at the theatre. Esteban assumed that the call was for copyist's work and was therefore utterly unprepared for a visit that they received one night in their room. It was almost midnight. Esteban had gone to bed, and lay gazing out from under the blanket at the candle beside which his brother was working. There was a light tap at the door and Manuel opened to admit a lady heavily veiled, out of breath and nervous. She threw back the scarf from her face and said hurriedly: "Quick, ink and paper. You are Manuel, yes? You must do a letter for me at once." For a moment her glance fell on the two bright eyes that glared at her from the edge of the cot. She murmured: "Eu ... you must excuse me. I know it is late. It was necessary ... I must come." Then turning to Manuel, she whispered into his ear: "Write this: _I Perichole, am not accustomed to wait at a rendez-vous_. Have you finished that? _You are only a cholo, and there are better matadors than you, even in Lima. I am half Castilian and there are no better actresses in the world. You shall not have the opportunity_--Have you got that?--_to keep me waiting again, cholo, and I shall laugh the last, for even an actress does not grow old as fast as a bullfighter_." To Esteban in the shadows the picture of Camila leaning over his brother's hand and whispering into his ear was complete evidence that a new congeniality had formed such as he would never know. He seemed to shrink away into space, infinitely tiny, infinitely unwanted. He took one more glance at the tableau of love, all the paradise from which he was shut out, and turned his face to the wall.