Doña Nicasia stepped gravely, respectfully, away from the door, her head bowed, with the attitude that we always adopt in the presence of the mysteries of birth, love, and death—the august, sacred mysteries of life itself.

The news circulated first among the boarders gathered in the parlor, and later, among those who were absent during this turn of events, upon arriving at their rooms later that night. The word spread that the curate had posed no opposition, that Sordo had given his approval, and that doña Nicasia was extremely pleased. There was a general shrugging of shoulders: what did another woman in the house matter? At the most, there was an eagerness to see her, a vague idea that she might somehow prefer one of them to the torero, the vaguely titillating disquiet that the presence of a pretty woman awakens in men of whatever age or walk of life. Corroded by disappointment, Ripoll shrugged even more than the others, upon hearing the news from Gallegos, who every morning installed himself in the engineer's room, wearing slippers and a ragged jacket, to chat and smoke half a dozen cigarettes:

“How about it, professor? A real invasion of skirts, if you ask me … and, I'm pleased as punch! She's a first class woman, if you ask me …”

Ripoll, bent over his numbers, refused to be excited: “Women? Bah! They're the same, all the same, no matter how much each and every lover may claim that his woman is exceptional … An entirely subjective judgment. If fact, they are all cut from the same cloth, women, with the same quirks and flaws, imperfect and imperfectible mechanisms. And because there is no other kind, and because we need them, we swear that we'll improve whatever woman we manage to grab for ourselves in the perennial scuffle …”

Gallegos chuckled at this philosophy: “If we kill ourselves for them and spend our lives chasing them—imperfect as women are—what if they were perfect? That would be the end of the world, professor!”

He told Ripoll that the boarders had acted that morning as if el Jarameño and his girl were real newlyweds, married the day before, eating breakfast in silence and tiptoeing off to their daily routines with a sidelong glance at the closed door:

“Go figure, man! Even the kitchen maid was careful to make as little noise as possible when she whipped the hot chocolate and washed the dishes. It's even better than the five acts of The Lovers of Teruel …”

Not a single boarder missed the midday meal which, according to house rules, was served at one o'clock sharp. On the other hand, there were some innovations: spotlessly white napkins and a table cloth, for one, and a centerpiece, too, containing a huge bouquet of flowers, a silver peso's worth, at least, that brought a smile to everyone's face. Gallegos floated a few risqué double entendres that the others carefully ignored and that soon evaporated amid loud throat-clearing from Sordo, a stern look from doña Nicasia, and a severe frown from don Práxedes. A large serving bowl of delicious-smelling soup preceded “the lovers of Teruel” to the table.