Don Mariano,ñaltaMartayMarí instead of replying, felt in all the pockets of his coat with a distracted air, and not finding what he was looking for, turned towards a corner of the room.
A young girl who was seated at one end of a sofa, not talking to anybody, came running to him. She might have been thirteen or fourteen years old, but the proportions of a woman grown were very distinctly observable in her. Nevertheless, she wore short dresses. She had a light complexion, with black hair and eyes, but her countenance did not offer the exasperating expression so commonly met with in faces of that kind. The features could not have been more regular and their _tout ensemble_ could not have been more harmonious; nevertheless, her beauty lacked animation. It was what is commonly called a cold face.
"Listen, daughter: go to my room, open the second drawer on the left-hand side of my writing-table, and bring me the cigar-case which you'll find there."
The girl went off on the run, and quickly returned with the article.
"Let us go and have a smoke in the dining-room," said Don Mariano, taking Don Maximo by the arm.
And the two left the parlor by one of the side doors.
Marta sat down again in the same place. The ladies on one side were engaged in lively conversation, but she took no share in it. She kept her seat, casting her eyes indifferently from one part of the parlor to the other, now resting them on one group of bystanders, now on another, and more particularly dwelling on the pianist, who at that moment was executing an arrangement of _Semiramide_.
Scarcely ever had the parlors of the Elorza mansion presented a more brilliant appearance; all the sofas of flowered damask were occupied by richly dressed ladies with bare arms and bosoms. The chandelier suspended from the middle, reflected the light in beautiful hues which fell upon smooth skins, making them look like milk and roses. Those fair bosoms were infinitely multiplied by the mirrors on both sides: the severe bottle-green paper of the parlor brought out all their whiteness. Marta turned to look at the Señoras de Delgado; three sisters: one, a widow, the other two, old maids. All were upwards of forty; the old maids did not trust to their youthfulness, but they had absolute confidence in the power of their shining shoulders and their fat and unctuous arms. Near them was the Señorita de Morí, round-faced, sprightly, with mischievous eyes, an orphan and rich. At a little distance was the Señora de Ciudad, napping peacefully until the hour should come for her to collect the six daughters whom she had scattered about in different parts of the parlor. Yonder in a corner her sister Maria was holding a confidential talk with a young man. The girl's eyes wandered slowly from one point to another. The music interested her very slightly. She seemed to be sure of not being noticed by any one, and her face kept the icy expression of indifference of one alone in a room.