Pepe Rey found himself in that state of mind in which the calmest man is seized by a sudden rage, by a blind and brutal impulse to strangle some one, to strike some one in the face, to break some one’s head, to crush some one’s bones.  But Dona Perfecta was a woman and was, besides, his aunt; and Don Inocencio was an old man and an ecclesiastic.  In addition to this, physical violence is in bad taste and unbecoming a person of education and a Christian.  There remained the resource of giving vent to his suppressed wrath in dignified and polite language; but this last resource seemed to him premature, and only to be employed at the moment of his final departure from the house and from Orbajosa.  Controlling his fury, then, he waited.

Jacinto entered as they were finishing supper.

“Good-evening, Senor Don Jose,” he said, pressing the young man’s hand.  “You and your friends kept me from working this afternoon.  I was not able to write a line.  And I had so much to do!”

“I am very sorry for it, Jacinto.  But according to what they tell me, you accompany them sometimes in their frolics.”

“I!” exclaimed the boy, turning scarlet.  “Why, you know very well that Tafetan never speaks a word of truth.  But is it true, Senor de Rey, that you are going away?”

“Is that the report in the town?”

“Yes.  I heard it in the Casino and at Don Lorenzo Ruiz’s.”

Rey contemplated in silence for a few moments the fresh face of Don Nominative.  Then he said: 

“Well, it is not true; my aunt is very well satisfied with me; she despises the calumnies with which the Orbajosans are favoring me—­and she will not turn me out of her house, even though the bishop himself should try to make her do so.”

“As for turning you out of the house—­never.  What would your father say?”

“Notwithstanding all your kindness, dearest aunt, notwithstanding the cordial friendship of the reverend canon, it is possible that I may myself decide to go away.”

“To go away!”

“To go away—­you!”

A strange light shone in Dona Perfecta’s eyes.  The canon, experienced though he was in dissimulation, could not conceal his joy.

“Yes, and perhaps this very night.”

“Why, man, how impetuous you are; Why don’t you at least wait until morning?  Here—­Juan, let some one go for Uncle Licurgo to get the nag ready.  I suppose you will take some luncheon with you.  Nicolasa, that piece of veal that is on the sideboard!  Librada, the senorito’s linen.”

“No, I cannot believe that you would take so rash a resolution,” said Don Cayetano, thinking himself obliged to take some part in the question.

“But you will come back, will you not?” asked the canon.

“At what time does the morning train pass?” asked Dona Perfecta, in whose eyes was clearly discernible the feverish impatience of her exaltation.

“I am going away to-night.”