The French Gardens were at the southern end of the town. Behind them rose the higher Andes and before them there was a parapet overlooking a deep valley and overlooking wave after wave of hills that stretched toward the Pacific. It was the hour when bats fly low and the smaller animals play recklessly underfoot. A few solitaries lingered about the gardens, gazing dreamily into the sky that was being gradually emptied of its colour, or leaned upon the balustrade and looked down into the valley, noting in which village a dog was barking. It was the hour when the father returns home from the fields and plays for a moment in the yard with the dog that jumps upon him, holding his muzzle closed or throwing him upon his back. The young girls look about for the first star to fix a wish upon it, and the boys grow restless for supper. Even the busiest mother stands for a moment idle-handed, smiling at her dear and exasperating family. Uncle Pio stood against one of the chipped marble benches and watched Camila coming towards him: "I am late," she said. "I am sorry. What is it you wish to say to me?" "Camila,--" he began. "My name is Doña Micaela." "I do not wish to offend you, Doña Micaela, but when you let me call you Camila for twenty years, I should think----" "Oh, do as you like. Do as you like." "Camila, promise me that you will listen to me. Promise me that you will not run away at my first sentence." At once she burst out with unexpected passion: "Uncle Pio, listen to me. You are mad if you think you can make me return to the theatre. I look back at the theatre with horror. Understand that. The theatre! The theatre, indeed! The daily payment of insults in that filthy place. Understand that you are wasting your time." He answered gently: "I would not have you come back if you are happy with these new friends." "You don't like my new friends, then?" she answered quickly. "Whom do you offer me in their stead?" "Camila, I only remember ..." "I will not be criticized. I don't want any advice. It will be cold in a moment, I must go back to my house. Just give me up, that's all. Just put me out of your mind." "Dear Camila, don't be angry. Let me talk to you. Just suffer me for ten minutes." He did not understand why she was weeping. He did not know what to say. He talked at random: "You never even come to see the theatre, and they all notice it. The audiences are falling away now, too. They only put on the Old Comedy twice a week; all the other nights there are these new farces in prose. All is dull and childish and indecent. No one can speak Spanish any more. No one can even walk correctly any more. On Corpus Christi Day they gave _Belshazzar's Feast_ where you were so wonderful. Now it was shameful."