Juan would be waiting for her outside the church door,
Maria reflected, and perhaps if she did not come he would seek others.
There was Dolores, of the cigarette factory, for example. The English
Senora could surely wait a few minutes. Her expression, and her
obvious unwillingness, supplied Emile with material for cynical
reflections upon the working value of religion. He did not trouble to
communicate his views to Maria, but merely gave orders and
instructions. His tone and manner were convincing. Like all the rest
of her sex Maria respected a man who knew what he wanted, and showed
that he intended to get it.
Emile made his way into the cool, shady Rambla, where a double avenue
of plane trees met overhead, and where a grateful darkness could always
be found even at mid-day. On either side of the promenade were the
finest shops, the gaiest _cafes_. A band of students passed him,
waving a scarlet flag and shouting a revolutionary _chanson_ of the
most fiery description. Emile scowled angrily. He had not the least
sympathy with these childish exhibitions of defiance, which he
considered utterly futile and a great waste of time.
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