“Where is José?” He repeated the question, as though translating it into another language. “Ah, where she is! She is waiting,” he said and, seeming to dismiss me, resumed his valet activities. So: the diplomat was planning a powder. Well, I wasn’t amazed; or in the slightest sorry. Still, what a heartbreaking stunt: “He ought to be horsewhipped.” The cousin giggled, I’m sure he understood me.
