Ностромо

           ThroughthegardengateemergedBasilio,grownfatandsleek,withanelderlyhairlessface,wrinklesatthecornersofhiseyes,andhisjet-black,coarsehairplastereddownsmoothly.Stoopingcarefullybehindanornamentalclumpofbushes,heputdownwithprecautionasmallchildhehadbeencarryingonhisshoulder—hisownandLeonarda’slastborn.Thepouting,spoiledCameristaandtheheadmozooftheCasaGouldhadbeenmarriedforsomeyearsnow.

           Heremainedsquattingonhisheelsforatime,gazingfondlyathisoffspring,whichreturnedhisstarewithimperturbablegravity;then,solemnandrespectable,walkeddownthepath.

           “Whatisit,Basilio?”askedMrs.Gould.

           “Atelephonecamethroughfromtheofficeofthemine.Themasterremainstosleepatthemountainto-night.”

           Dr.Monyghamhadgotupandstoodlookingaway.AprofoundsilencereignedforatimeundertheshadeofthebiggesttreesinthelovelygardensoftheCasaGould.

           “Verywell,Basilio,”saidMrs.Gould.Shewatchedhimwalkawayalongthepath,stepasidebehindthefloweringbush,andreappearwiththechildseatedonhisshoulder.Hepassedthroughthegatewaybetweenthegardenandthepatiowithmeasuredsteps,carefulofhislightburden.

           Thedoctor,withhisbacktoMrs.Gould,contemplatedaflower-bedawayinthesunshine.Peoplebelievedhimscornfulandsoured.