Rosarito darted, like a bird released from its cage, toward the glass
door.

"Pepe, who knows so much and who must understand all about trees," said
Dona Perfecta, "will teach you how to graft. Let us see what he thinks
of those young pear-trees that they are going to transplant."

"Come, come!" called Rosarito to her cousin impatiently from the garden.

Both disappeared among the foliage. Dona Perfecta watched them until
they were out of sight and then busied herself with the parrot. As she
changed its food she said to herself with a contemplative air:

"How different he is! He has not even given a caress to the poor bird."

Then, thinking it possible that she had been overheard by her
brother-in-law, she said aloud:

"Cayetano, what do you think of my nephew? Cayetano!"

A low grunt gave evidence that the antiquary was returning to the
consciousness of this miserable world.

"Cayetano!"

"Just so, just so!" murmured the scientist in a sleepy voice. "That
young gentleman will maintain, as every one does, that the statues
of Mundogrande belong to the first Phoenician immigration. But I will
convince him--"