A quick knock on the. door and the voice of Doña Cristina, the housekeeper, announcing that the table had been prepared, interrupted Don Alfonso’s reflections. Quickly he finished dressing and went to the dining room.

What does his way of fixing his gaze on a neutral point mean? the bishop wondered. This young man is looking out at me from his austerity, from his innocence which hasn’t had time to be corrupted. He does not admire me; on the contrary, he condemns me; he protests again the luxury of this house. I know the serving dishes could be more modest, the furniture more common, the decorations less lavish. And he says I taught him to mortify himself! He mocks me. He cannot understand that nothing here is superfluous. Solitude, idleness, fear of old age made me as persistent as a bird that gathers bits of straw wherever it can to make its nest with. None of this belongs to me. It will pass into the hands of my successors, others will enjoy it, strangers who won’t even know how to appreciate it.

Such thoughts made all Don Alfonso’s efforts to haul to this remote town the crystal jug, the ivory carved by Guatemalan craftsmen, the exquisite specimen of the weaver’s art, suddenly strike him as monstrous and vain.

“Let us make our thanksgiving,” said the bishop before taking his seat.

The two priests began their muttered prayer as Doña Cristina was about to cross the threshold. She stopped, her hands hidden beneath her apron, until the blessing had been spoken. Then she approached them to serve the meal.

“Regarding what we were saying before,” Don Alfonso went on—Manuel’s questioning gaze forced him to be more precise— “about mortification. I have had occasion to observe you during meals. You always reject the most appetizing dishes. Doña Cristina”—here he made a gesture that was answered with a smile of gratitude by the woman he alluded to—“is worried that her culinary abilities have declined. She doesn’t know that youth is an age that mistrusts pleasure.”

His Excellency was going to continue developing this paradox but was discouraged by the incomprehension of his audience. Doña Cristina (though naturally he had not spoken for her benefit) was looking at him with stupid veneration and seemed about to fall to her knees. And Manuel couldn’t hide his distraction. After a few seconds of silence he answered with visible reluctance, “When youth has not forgotten the hunger of childhood it is unlikely to know how to appreciate the refinements of the palate.”

“And other refinements as well, Manuel.”

His Excellency dismissed the housekeeper with a wave. When they were alone, he prepared to speak. Clearing his throat to rid his voice of any nuance of condescension which could appear insulting, he said, “Last night, at the Cifuentes’ party, your behavior was not quite so correct as one would have wished.”