In vain his friend brought him cases that represented enormous fees.

The voluminous documents would become covered with dust on his table and Don Esteban would have to saddle himself with the dates in order that the end of the legal procedures should not slip by.
His son, Ulysses would be a very different sort of man, thought the notary.

In his mind's eye he could see the lad as a great civilian jurist like his godfather, but with a positive activity inherited from his father.

Fortune would enter through his doors on waves of stamped paper.
Furthermore, he would also possess the notarial studio--the dusty office with its ancient furniture and great wardrobes, with its screen doors and green curtains, behind which reposed the volumes of the protocol, covered with yellowing calfskin with initials and numbers on their backs.

Don Esteban realized fully all that his study represented.
"There is no orange grove," he would say in his expansive moments; "there are no rice plantations that can produce what this estate does.
Here there are no frosts, nor strong sea winds, nor inundations." The clientele was certain--people from the church, who had the devotees back of them and considered Don Esteban as one of their class, and farmers, many rich farmers.