As Lucas had announced, Ibarra arrived the next day. His first visit was to the family of Captain Tiago, with the object of seeing Maria Clara and telling her that His Most Illustrious Greatness had already reconciled him with the Church. He brought a letter of recommendation to the curate, written by the hand of the Archbishop himself. Aunt Isabel was not a little delighted over it, for she liked the young man and did not look favorably upon the marriage of her niece with Linares. Captain Tiago was not at home.  
“Come in,” said the aunt in her half-Castellano language. “Maria, Don Crisostomo is again in the grace of God. The Archbishop has dis-excommunicated him.”
 
But the young man could not advance. His smile froze on his lips, and words fled from his mind. Linares was standing next to Maria Clara on the balcony, interweaving nosegays with the flowers and leaves on the climbing plants. On the floor, were scattered roses and sampagas. Maria Clara was leaning back on a sofa, pale, pensive, her look sad, playing with her ivory fan. But the fan was not as white as her poor fingers.
 
At the presence of Ibarra, Linares turned pale and Maria Clara’s cheeks were tinged with carmine. She tried to rise, but her strength failing her, she cast her eyes upon the floor, and let fall her fan.
 
An embarrassing silence reigned for several seconds. Finally, Ibarra was able to advance, and tremblingly murmured:
 
“I have just arrived and have hastened to see you.... I find that you are better than I thought.”
 
Maria Clara seemed to have turned dumb. She could [189]not pronounce a single word, and continued to keep her eyes on the floor.
 
Ibarra surveyed Linares with a look which the modest young man bore with considerable haughtiness.
 
“Well, I see that my arrival was not expected,” he said slowly. “Maria, pardon me for not having announced my coming. Some other day I will be able to explain to you my conduct.”
 
These words were accompanied with a look at Linares. The maiden raised her eyes to Ibarra, those beautiful eyes, full of purity and melancholy, so supplicating and sweet that Ibarra stopped confused.
 
“May I come to-morrow?”
 
“You know that on my part you are always welcome,” replied she, scarcely able to pronounce the words.
 
Ibarra walked away, apparently tranquil; but a tempest raged in his mind, and his heart was chilled. What he had just seen and felt was incomprehensible. What was it? Doubt, apathy or treason?
&............