The cat, for some reason, wished the saucer to be set upon the floor; and Veronica still bent down, until it sprang lightly upon the lower shelf, and began the slow and dainty operation of lapping the cream.
During all this, Gregorio, anxious to seem unaware of anything extraordinary, and not really knowing how his wife meant to put the poison into the tea, was nervously looking away from her, sometimes towards the window, at the fast-fading light of the grey afternoon on the opposite house, and sometimes at Veronica's head as she bent down.
When she looked up, Matilde was holding out her cup to her, having put some cream into it and a lump of real sugar to really sweeten the tea.
Veronica thanked her, drew a little nearer to the table, held her cup on her knee, and took a thin slice of bread and butter, which she proceeded to eat, stirring the tea slowly with her left hand.
Matilde meanwhile filled the other two cups, and handed one to her husband, who took it in silence, unsuspectingly.
"I can never understand why the tea we make here is better than mine," she said, smiling.

"It is the same tea, of course.

But it certainly is better in your room." "Is it ?" asked Veronica, carelessly and looking down at the cup she held on her knee, while she slowly stirred the contents.
As though to verify Matilde's assertion, she bent a little, raised the cup, and tasted the liquid.

It was still too hot to drink, and she stirred it again on her knee.

She noticed that although it had been sweet enough to her taste, there was a lump of sugar, not yet dissolved, still in the cup: she never took but one piece, and her aunt had evidently put in two.
Still holding the cup on her knee, where Matilde could not possibly see it, she quietly fished the superfluous piece of sugar out with her teaspoon, and bending down again she deposited it in the saucer from which the cat was lapping the last drops of cream.