Scarcely a month passed that she did not walk in her sleep.
Cueto was plainly curious to learn why he had been sent for, but
since he asked no questions, his employer was forced to open the
subject herself. Several times he led up to it unsuccessfully;
then she took the plunge. Through dry, white lips she began:
"My dear Pancho, times are hard. The plantations are failing, and
so--" Pancho Cueto's eyes were set close to his nose, his face was
long and thin and harsh; he regarded the speaker with such a
sinister, unblinking stare that she could scarcely finish: "--and
so I--can no longer afford to retain you as administrador."
"Times will improve," he said.
"Impossible! This war threatens to bring utter ruin; and now that
Esteban and Rosa are home they spend money like water. I groan
with poverty."
"Yes, they are extravagant. It is the more reason for me to remain
in your service."
"No, no! I tell you I'm bankrupt."
"So? Then the remedy is simple--sell a part of your land."
Although this suggestion came naturally enough, Dona Isabel turned
cold, and felt her smile stiffen into a grimace. She wondered if
Cueto could be feeling her out deliberately. "Sell the Varona
lands?" she queried, after a momentary struggle with herself.
"Esteban would rise from his grave. No. It was his wish that the
plantations go to his children intact.
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